“Please, wake up.Please, stay with me.” Tears run down my cheeks as I heave against his chest.
“You’re okay.” My voice shakes, and I repeat firmly, “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine. I promise.” But the promise is an empty wish, because the only certainty there is at all is thatI’mokay. I’m okay because of him. And I may have cost him everything.
Eva
“Do you still have any pain, honey?”
I stare at a rose. Deep red, with shades of pink between the petals. Blurred green ink hints at the start of a stem, but the image never fully forms. Several petals drift away from the flower, wandering past the nurse’s collarbone and beneath her peach-colored scrubs.
The petals look soft, inviting, and I have the urge to touch them. Her skin is much darker than Mom’s, and it’s a different type of flower, but for a moment, I imagine tracing the outline and pretending it’s Mom’s lily. My fingers itch with curiosity, and I curl them lightly into my palms instead.
“Okay,” she says. “Why don’t you take a look at the pain chart and tell me how you’re feeling?”
The woman beside her gives me a soft smile, and I drag my gaze to a poster on the wall that depicts an array of faces ranging from smiling to crying. Then I glance back at the nurse, whose lips tilt down in a tight frown.
“I want to see him,” I say for the hundredth time.
From the moment Easton and I were ushered into the ambulance, everything has been a whirlwind—turbulent, at breakneck speed, and completely out of my control. I should have assumed we’d be separated, but until today, I’d never even been to a hospital. He was taken to the ICU, while I was brought to the children’s wing since I’m underage. I’ll be eighteen in two weeks. Two stupid weeks are separating us by entire floors.
“I know.” The nurse looks at the other woman, and her brows slant in concern before I look away. “I promised to update you as soon as I can, and I will hold true to my word. I won’t forget. In the meantime, please, will you give Miss St. Claire a chance? She’ll leave if you really want her to, but we need you to know ... she’s here for you, Eva. She’s here to offer support.”
Tears well in my eyes narrowed on the window I’m not really looking through. I don’t needsupport. I need Easton. I need to know he’s going to be okay.
From the corner of my eye, I see her step closer, the therapist I’m done talking to. I already answered everyone’s questions and recounted what happened more times than I can stand. I don’t know why she’s still here when I’ve been nothing but absent at best, rude at worst.
Miss St. Claire takes one more step, then stops, her frazzled, shoulder-length blond hair and electric blue glasses coming into view. “We don’t need to talk anymore, Eva,” she says softly.Kindly. Her tone makes me more bitter. “It’s all right. I know your experience here hasn’t been easy so far, and I just want to help make everything from this point forward be as comfortable as possible.”
The burn in my eyes only builds, and I release a shaky breath, gaze locked on the raindrops running down the windowpane. Unfamiliar hands and instruments—poking, prodding, invading my space. Clinical walls, strange faces, and a foreign gown rubbing the stitches on my arm. Goosebumps cling to me like barnacles, and I just want to go home yet I have no home to go to.
But none of that matters. None of that is why I can’t stop this gnawing, continual urge to cry.
I’ve been through worse things than having no home and spending an afternoon being probed by people just trying to do their jobs. I’ve walked through hell and managed to come out on the other side with my limbs intact and my heart still beating. I don’t need a stupid pain chart for any of this; I need the kind of chart that can’t be scaled. The kind that measures heartache and anxiety and the unbelievable desperation of not knowing if the person you love is going to be okay. Each second that passes without seeing his whiskey eyes steals a little piece of me, and if this goes on much longer, I won’t have anything left.
Miss St. Claire’s voice calls me back to the hospital room. “You’ve been so brave, but the worst is over. You don’t have to be brave anymore. I’m here if you need me, okay? If you need anything at all.”
Finally, my gaze slides to her. To this stranger who wants to comfort me now—now that I’ve survived The Pitts, shattered vases, and hairy knuckles. Where was she when I was alone, when I was scared, when I was robbed of everything I am? Where was my comfort then?
Resentment settles in my chest, but my words are cool. “You’re right. The worst is over, and I got through it on my own. I may have needed you at one point, Miss St. Claire, but that was then. I don’t need you anymore.”
The words ring with certainty, and hearing them spill from my own lips stuns and strengthens me all at once. I got through it, all of it, and now my head is held high. Maybe he didn’t rob me of everything after all.
“Okay,” Miss St. Claire says simply. “I understand.” She nods at the nurse. “I’ll be around if you change your mind. Oh, also, I thought you might want to know, your parents are here.”
I stare at her.
“They’re in the ICU checking on your brother, but I’m sure they’ll be down to see you any moment now.”
Anger, repulsion, hatred all buzz in my stomach like a swarm of bees. But at the base is a hive built of rejection. As much as I want to hate them for sending me away, I don’t. Not even a little. Not even at all.
“Don’t hold your breath,” I whisper and shift my gaze back to the window.
The nurse tips her chin toward the tray beside my bed. “You’re not hungry?”
“No.” My traitorous stomach grumbles at the reminder of the tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich.
“You know,” Miss St. Claire says, “I’m dying for a coffee. Is there anything you want me to pick up for you in the cafe?” At my silence, she says, “My cell is on the card beside your food tray. Feel free to call me if you think of anything.”
She’s halfway out the door when I hear myself stop her. “Orange juice,” I say, my throat parched with thirst for something I long for but can’t fill without whiskey. I turn my head toward the two women. “Please.”
