“Pain?” I ask. He bites his lip, humming a bit.
“Mm, no. A little. Not bad. Mostly just sleepy. Was everything okay?”
“Yes,” I agree. The doctor seemed pleased with the procedure and provided what I assume is the best prognosis we could hope for in this situation. They were able to stop the bleeding, and although he’ll still have to go through testing to make sure it remains that way, right now, he’s out of the woods.
“You okay?” he asks, voice picking up a little bit of a drawl, like exhaustion and the effects of anesthesia are trying to drag him down once more. I circle my thumb on his temple. He leans into it, eyes closing as he smiles.
“I-I-I’m fine.” Worried, stressed, tired, and inexplicably sad. But yes, fine. Oliver opens his eyes to look up at me.
“You should go get some sleep. Are the chickens okay? Have you eaten? What day is it?”
Reassurances from the doctor aside, it’s the rapid-fire questions that make me believe he’s doing better. Oliver hadn’t been chatty before, and it was that, more than anything, thatimpressed upon me the severity of the situation. Apparently, when he’s quiet is when I should be concerned that he’s in pain.
“Same day,” I tell him. We arrived in the emergency department a little after midnight, and it’s only early evening now. A single day, but one long enough to feel like a week. I continue sliding my hand along his scalp, brushing through his hair, not bothering to answer the questions about myself or the chickens. I don’t want him worrying about anything but himself.
“Can you sleep here?” he asks, patting the bed. I shake my head. “Are you sure? I bet I could ask nicely and they’d let you. Or maybe I can go home. I’m feeling pretty good.” I shake my head again. Delayed rupture is a big concern and will necessitate close monitoring for at least a week. One night in the hospital is the very least they will require. Oliver sighs. “Or maybe tomorrow morning? I think I’d feel better at home than I do here. Probably heal faster, too. Also, I can cook better, and you need proper food to get well.”
I raise my eyebrows. He might not remember everything the doctor went over with him. Recovery time will vary, but they were very, very clear about how little he’ll be allowed to do for a couple of weeks, followed by an even longer period of time off the boat. When I’d told them he’s a lobster fisherman, they’d been firm on a minimum of two months off, with the possibility of that being extended to more. Instead of reminding him of all that, I just continue touching his hair and trying to provide a calm, gentle sort of reassurance. Now is not the time for him to worry about that.
Oliver is back asleep when Shiloh and Ewan turn up. They cut it close on the visiting hours, walking through the door a half hour before I’m expected to be walking out. Shiloh, glancing at Oliver, pitches his voice low and speaks to me.
“How’s he doing?”
“F-f-f-fine,” I murmur back. Oliver’s eyes are closed, mouth parted as he breathes calmly. He’ll wake up when the nurses come in to check on him but seems able to sleep through almost everything else. I already feel bad, worried about the fatigue the doctor warned me would be a primary aspect of his recovery. Oliver is incredibly active—feeling inexplicably tired while simultaneously not being allowed to do anything is going to be hard for him.
“I stopped at the business office and took care of the insurance,” Shiloh adds, frowning and rubbing a hand over his forehead. “First time I’ve had to use it.”
Ewan, taking a seat next to me, nudges me with an elbow and silently holds out a paper bag that smells strongly of fried food. I take it from him, nodding in thanks, grateful for the thought. I’m starving, hospital food and coffee having long since stopped being satisfactory.
I want to ask if Shiloh knows how Dryden and Cody are doing. Oliver, were he awake, wouldn’t even need me to say it out loud. He’d simply know what I was wondering and ask the question for me. I stare at him, sleeping in the hospital bed, and miss him. I also love him, and for the first time since we’ve gotten here, I become fully aware of how close to losing him I probably came. Internal bleeding from something as seeminglyharmless as a bad fall. Things like that happenall the timeon the boat. Clearing my throat, I blink away the haze of tears suddenly making it hard to see him. A hand touches me, Ewan’s long artist’s fingers resting gently on my forearm.
“We-we-we-we’re together-r-r-r-r,” I tell them quietly, stumbling through the words in a way that makes the statement sound weaker than I’d like it to.
“You are?” Shiloh asks. I glance up at him, standing next to Ewan’s chair, looking surprised. Ewan makes a strangled noise like a laugh caught in his throat.
“I told you,” he mutters under his breath.
“Well…that’s good,” Shiloh adds, clearly unsure what to say. Smiling to myself, I put my attention back on Oliver. Yes, it is good. The best thing that ever happened to me, in fact.
Chapter Twenty-Two
OLIVER
My stomach aches with a dull, throbbing sort of pain that errs closer to an annoyance than actual hurt. Sitting down is uncomfortable. Standing is uncomfortable. Bending over is nearly impossible. Having sexisimpossible, just like standing at the kitchen counter cooking or lobstering is impossible. Sitting on the couch, blanket wrapped around my legs, I have myself what Dryden Roy would call a nice little pity party. Even that is hard to put much effort into, though. I’m just so freakingtired.
Nils walks down the stairs, looking handsome in tight jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Tipping my head against the back of the couch, I smile at him. Gosh, but he is nice to look at. Seeing me watching, he raises an eyebrow and looks down at himself.
“You look good,” I explain. “Very handsome.”
He huffs, the sound like a verbal eye roll. Walking to the couch, he leans over the back and kisses me. It’s the same sort of gentle kiss he’s been providing since we got back from thehospital a few days ago, like my lips are connected to my spleen, and if he puts any force behind it, I’ll get hurt. I pout, which makes him laugh, this time dropping a kiss on my forehead.
“Checking the chickens?” I ask him, waiting until he nods before using a hand on the couch cushion to sit up. “I’m going to come with you. I need to walk around a little bit. If I sit on this couch any longer, my butt is going to grow moss.”
He helps me stand up, which is both adorable and unnecessary. Well, maybe slightly necessary, as my side twinges and I feel a little lightheaded. I’ve had a very slight fever since last night, and anytime I try or really even think about eating, my stomach rolls in discomfort. Add on top of that the sluggishness that has me feeling like I’m living in quicksand, brain foggy and limbs heavy, and I just don’t feel good. Worse than all that, though, is Nils’ very apparent concern. He’s been watching me with worried, dark eyes, fingers constantly reaching for me to help me with mundane tasks or check my temperature. He wants me to eat more and bites his lip in uneasiness when I can only manage a few mouthfuls every couple of hours. I’m not sure I like being the center of this sort of attention. It’s not so bad being fawned over, but the flip side is having to see so much anxiety on Nils’ face. I don’t want him to be burdened with more stress. I want him to be happy. I want him to kiss me like he used to and snuggle me a little closer without worrying about causing pain.
He puts a hand very gently around my back, helping me walk around the couch and through the kitchen. I’m ashamed to admit to myself that it’s necessary. I feel as weak as a baby deer.Or, rather, a baby chick. At the back door, Nils brushes a thumb along my jaw and stares into my eyes.Wait here, he’s asking, so I nod and hum absently as he goes to fetch my boots and jacket.
For some reason, watching him kneel down and slip the muck boots over my socked feet, taking care to tuck the fabric of my joggers inside, tightens my throat and puts a burn in my eyes. I swallow but don’t quite manage to keep the emotion inside when he straightens and tugs a beanie onto my head, fingers gentle as he makes sure my ears are covered. Frowning, he slides the pads of his thumbs under my eyes.
