Now or ever.
When I glance around, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, a body moving from a sitting to a standing position, a phone clutched in the person’s hand with the screen lit.
Lance.
Relief, but not enough of it, pools in my head and heart at the sight ofsomethingfamiliar. It only makes me worry more, because for him to be here and away from work must mean that something tragic happened. And from the sounds of it, the tragedy involves me.
“L-Lance?” I manage to get out, the word sounding funky on my lips. Not because I don’t know it, but because it’s almost like I haven’t talked for days.
“Emory, you’re awake,” he says with relief, coming to stand next to the hospital bed. My gaze tracks down his finely pressed button-up and khakis. Back to the phone in his hand. The screen on it dims and a voice comes out of it. I can’t make sense of the words, but I recognize the voice as his assistant’s.
Lance brings the phone up to his mouth and says, “I’ll call you back.” He hits the button on the side of the phone and pockets it. And then his full attention is on me. It washes over me in a way I’ve wanted for too long, but then it’s swept away when I notice his empty gaze—the same one that’s been there for months now.
Lance isn’t in love with me anymore. The apology of that truth—one he hasn’t said directly but in so many words and actions—swirls around his eyes as they take in my batteredappearance. Sometimes I wonder if he’s attempted to get back to that loving place with me, but in the end, just doesn’t know which direction to take to get there.
“What…” I squeeze my eyes closed because simply speaking hurts the upper half of my body. “What happened, Lance?” I ask, my words coated with a roughness that only comes from a great, deep sleep.
“Hang on.” He lifts a finger and walks around the foot of the bed. I track him, watching as he goes for the door. I catch sight of the small whiteboard hanging on the wall, a few different names scribbled out on it in red marker. He’s back half a moment later. “The nurse on shift is coming.” He steps up to the side of the bed, propping his hands on his hips instead of reaching out for me. Part of me wants just alittlebit of his warmth, of those warm undertones that hooked me in the beginning.
“Can’t you just te?—”
“You’re in the ICU,” he says. “And you’ve been in and out of consciousness for the last two days, give or take.”
Confusion mars my expression. I imagine myself shaking my head to try to make sense of what he’s telling me. “I don’t understand.”
“Your doctors have been giving you a cocktail of medications to keep you comfortable due to the injuries you sustained. One of the side effects of that has been an exorbitant amount of sleep. But also…” He trails off, and all I can think about is what he just said.
Doctors.
Cocktail of medications.
Injuries.
That melodic beeping grows louder and more intense, swishing in and out. My stomach twists harder, but the bile stays put. My head swirls with thoughts I can’t make senseof because…I don’trememberanything happening to me that would cause all of…this.
But then snippets push forward, giving me a string of reminders.
Waves.
Rocks.
My camera.
The awful sensation of liquid filling my lungs as I try to suck in air before everything goes dark. Just thinking about it stirs a burn below my ribcage.
“I don’t…”
Lance must tell from the expression on my face that I’m struggling to get my words out. He continues, giving me an answer that makes my heart stutter in my chest. “Emory…you were rescued at Coralhaven Beach. A beachgoer saw you go under and almost didn’t make it out to you. Paramedics had to perform CPR on the way to the hospital. Thankfully, it wasn’t far, but your body was so close to giving out.”
Panic swims in my chest as a coolness cloaks my body. A flash of frothy water forms at the edges of my mind. A towering wave comes next, reaching for the clouds in the otherwise clear sky. And then that whistling returns in between the shuttering of something I recognize as my camera clicking as it freezes frames of time.
He licks his lips in that way he always does when he’s unsure if he should say something. It’s a tell of his that I’ve seen hundreds of times. His lack of communication is another indicator that what we have isn’t full proof.
If two people can’t talk to each other—about small or big things—what do they really have?
“That’s not all.”
“Okay…” I draw out the word, afraid of what he’s going to say next.
