“Fine.” Pushing to my feet, I adjust my own drab gown, grab the crutches leaning on my chair, and walk slowly out into the hall.
It’s ironic how much of my life lately has been spent using them.
When I manage to limp my way slowly into the cold corridor, Dad and Uncle Dixon are there talking quietly.
They both stop when I clear my throat and Dad rushes to me, wrapping me in a warm hug.
“Hey, honey. How are you doing?” His words are hushed, but they still echo against the concrete walls.
“Tired.” Is all I have the strength to say.
Uncle Dixon grunts from behind him. “You need to rest too.”
“No, I need to be there with him.” I flick my thumb over my shoulder towards the door.
“Soph—” His mustache twitches, but his voice softens. “—you have more than him to worry about now.” The way his eyes flick to my belly then back up makes it clear what he’s referring to.
“The baby is fine. Ollie—” My throat feels like it’s closing. “—saved me.
“Then don’t make his sacrifice worthless by letting yourself get sick,” he grumbles.
“I’ll bring Lori down,” Dad interjects.
Great. That’s all I need. I love her to death, but she’s like a mother hen and would make me take it easy.
Which was wonderful when I was healing from my broken femur.
This is different.
“They won’t put a bed for me in his room. And I’m not staying away. So I don’t know what to tell you.” I shrug against my crutches, then lean heavily on them. “I’m going to be there when he wakes up, that’s final.”
Just being out here makes me antsy to get back to Oliver.
“Sophia, they’re keeping him sedated because of the swelling in his brain. He isn’t going to until they drop his meds.” Uncle Dixon crosses his arms in that ‘I’m done talking, just listen to me’ stance that he takes.
“I don’tfuckingcare.” My jaw sets and I swivel on my good leg to hobble back to Oliver’s side.
Am I mad when Uncle Dixon follows me?
Not really. I’m too damn exhausted to argue.
When he side-tracks to the desk, I keep going.
Even in Missoula, he has some sort of doctor cred, because he starts barking orders that I don’t understand.
Or maybe it’s that he’s a big, giant, cowboy with a mustache and muscles that has all of the nurses tripping over themselves to help him?
Again, I don’t fucking care.
I find my seat and slide Ollie’s limp fingers into mine.
“I’m back, baby,” I whisper, then press my lips to his scraped knuckles.
He twitches, making the beep of his heartrate make a momentary skip.
I knew it.
“I’m here, Ollie. I’m not leaving.”
