He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.
But he almost wasn’t.
Because of Mercer.
Because ofme.
I sniffle, using my sleeve to wipe my nose as I hover near the side of the hospital bed.
We’re alone now, just him and me. For the first time in hours, there isn’t a first responder or nurse asking questions or demanding I give them space.
At least I think it’s been hours. Time ceased to exist the second I stepped into the barn.
How long had Mercer been planning to…what? Capture Ty? Scare him?
How the hell could Noah allow him to go through with it?
Disgust and disappointment roll through me. I’m angry with both of them but also myself. More than anything, though, I’m exhausted. I’m wrung out. Physically, mentally, and emotionally drained.
It takes concerted effort to stand up straight as I quietly move around the dark hospital room. Shoulders rounded and feet heavy, I use the bathroom and scrub my hands with scalding hot water. It’s the only semblance of clean I’m going to get tonight.
While I’m in the bathroom, I braid my hair quickly, though I avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I don’t want to see the girl looking back at me. The level of disgust I feel is overwhelming, the depth of my own ire almost debilitating. My self-loathing has drained the last of my energy, leaving me without the bandwidth to deal with the two men who contributed to tonight’s wreckage.
They’re here now. Out in the waiting room, according to the texts Noah sent me. Hopefully they’ll get the not-so-subtle message that I don’t want to see them and leave.
There’s been no word from Mercer, though the wording of Noah’s messages leads me to believe they’re together. So either he doesn’t want to reach out or he’s too ashamed to even attempt it.
It’s cowardly, but he and I are aligned.
While he likely doesn’t want to face the reality of what he did, I don’t want to face the reality of what I enabled.
Sighing, I turn off the bathroom lights. Then I trudge toward the bed.
I slip into the extra pair of hospital socks the nurse left for me, then survey the thin pillow and scratchy blanket on the pull-out couch.
I don’t want to sleep there. I need to be closer to Ty. As close as I can get without hurting him.
When he was in that storage locker, then on the ground while the EMTs worked and later in surgery and recovery, the distance between us was inky black and deep enough to drown me.
I’m no good for him. Just like he’s no good for me. We’re toxic together.
But tonight, when I’m consumed by raw despair, when the moment he went limp in my arms plays over and over in my mind, I can’t bear the thought of putting space between us.
Soon, it will be necessary.
But tonight, I just want to hold him.
So I snag the blanket from the couch and circle the bed.
I crawl in on Ty’s right side, avoiding his incisions and IV.
With slow, subtle movements, I arrange my body around his, settling in as close as I can get without touching him. Exhaling, I brush a few stray hairs off his forehead, drinking in the steady rhythm of his breathing.
This boy.
This beautiful, broken boy.
I won’t hurt him anymore. I can’t. I refuse to cause him any more damage.
