“Water,” I manage, the word rasping out.
Mom’s already reaching for the pitcher on the bedside table, pouring water into a plastic cup with a straw. She brings it to my lips carefully, supporting my head with her other hand.
“Small sips,” she warns.
The water is cool, soothing, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I take two careful sips before she pulls it away.
“How long—” My voice is still rough, quiet, but at least the words are forming now.
“Three days.” Another voice. I shift my gaze and see Wyatt standing on the other side of the bed. He looks like shit—unshaven, wearing rumpled clothes, dark circles under his eyes. “You’ve been out for three days, man.”
Three days. I try to process that, but can’t quite wrap my head around it.
“What happened?”
“You went for a run,” Mom says, her voice shaking. “Slipped on ice. Hit your head pretty badly. You had swelling in your brain, so they put you in a medically induced coma to let it go down.”
The memories come back in fragments. The path. The cold. Thinking about Natalie. About the proposal. Then falling.
“Is Natalie okay?” The words come out urgent, panicked. “The baby—did I miss anything? Is she?—”
“They’re fine,” Wyatt says quickly. “They’re both fine. Nat’s okay, the baby’s okay. You didn’t missanything.”
The relief is so intense I have to close my eyes for a second.
“Does she know? About the accident?”
“Yeah. I told her the minute I found out. I’ve been keeping her updated.” Wyatt pauses. “She’s been texting almost every hour to check on you.”
“I should call her,” I say. “Let her know I’m okay.”
“Yeah, you should.” Wyatt glances at my mom. “Except there’s a small problem.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” Mom gestures helplessly. “The paramedics couldn’t find it at the scene. We think maybe the ambulance ran over it. Or it fell in the water. Either way, it’s gone.”
“Great.” I close my eyes again. Everything hurts, and now I can’t even call Natalie to tell her I’m alive.
“Here.” Something presses into my good hand. I open my eyes to see Wyatt holding out his phone. “Use mine. I think she’d really want to hear from you.”
“She asked for space.”
“Jake.” Wyatt’s voice is firm. “Call her. Trust me on this.”
Mom’s already moving toward the door. “We’ll give you some privacy.”
They step out into the hallway, and I’m alone with Wyatt’s phone in my hand.
I pull up the video call app and see Natalie’s number in his recent contacts, evidence of all the updates he’s been giving her. I hit call before I can overthink it.
It rings once. Twice.
Then her face fills thescreen.
She’s in her living room, I think. But I barely register the background because all I can see is her. Hair pulled back in a messy bun and puffy eyes with no makeup. Her eyes go wide when she sees me.
“Jake,” she breathes.
