I don’t understand why that makes my chest ache. Why does the absence of his hand in mine suddenly seem heavier than everything else happening tonight?
Before my brain can start over analyzing it, I push the car door open and step out, the cool night air hitting my face. It clears my head just enough to remember why we’re here and what matters right now.
My dad is awake; everything else can wait.
Jace closes his door and walks around the front of the car. He falls into step beside me, tall and steady at my side as we head toward the entrance.
The hospital lights spill across the pavement, casting long shadows in front of us.
Neither of us says anything as we walk through the sliding doors together.
This place has become too familiar. Too many days spent walking through these doors, sitting next to my dad for hours while I whispered to him about trivial things that didn’t matter. The kind of normal conversations people have when they’re trying to pretend everything will be okay.
I head to the elevator.
My feet move across the polished floor, the sound of my sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. My heart pounds harder with each step, slamming against my ribs in a rhythm that makes my hands shake again.
When the elevator doors slide open, we step inside together.
The metal doors close with a gentle thud, locking us inside the small space. The numbers above the door start to climb.
One.
Two.
Three.
The ride lasts only a few seconds, but my chest gets tighter with each floor we pass. Every number that lights up brings me closer to something I’ve been waiting for and am now afraid to face.
Jace stands beside me with his hands in his jacket pockets. His shoulder is close enough to mine that I can feel the warmth emanating off him. Close enough that if I just slightly leaned to the left, I would be pressed against him.
I feel it. That quiet presence. The one that has been following me around since I’ve been coming here and without asking for anything in return.
The doors open onto the ICU floor.
My feet slow as we walk down the hallway.
Room after room goes by on either side of us, each holding someone else’s fear inside.
My dad’s room is near the end. I can see the number from here.
My steps falter, and fear suddenly grips my chest.
What if the man in that room isn’t the same dad who tucked me into bed when I was little or taught me to ride a bike in the driveway? What if the accident changed him? What if he looks at me and doesn’t recognize who I am?
I stop without meaning to.
Jace’s hand presses against the middle of my back.
“Come on, Bells,” he says, voice low and husky beside my ear. That silly nickname hits me right in the chest.
I glance up at him and notice his expression is calmer than mine. The same quiet strength he has given me sits in his eyes.
I take a breath that fails to soothe the storm inside my chest.
Jace and I walk into the room.
Dad is sitting up in bed, not fully upright but higher than he has been since this nightmare began. Pillows are stacked behind his back, and the thin hospital blanket is pulled across his legs.
