Page 168 of Shade
I shake my head, as does Tiller. “He has one, but he wasn’t wearing it tonight.”
I don’t know why Shade didn’t have it on. But I remember he was wearing it when he attacked Jaime. Had it fallen off?
Could that have made a difference?
“I had it,” Roan tells him. “He ripped it off when he got into a fight with Jaime.”
The doctor makes some notes on a pad he pulls from his pocket. “He was in a fight before the crash?”
We all nod.
“Is that where the black eye and abrasions on his face came from?”
Again, we nod.
The doctor stands, our eyes follow. “You can see him in a few minutes.” He waves to the nurse standing behind him. “My nurse will have the forms for you to sign and take you back to see him.”
And then he walks away.
Sometimes, without you knowing it, your life slows down.
When the doctor retreats behind the doors where Shade is lying, fighting for his life, mine slows down in the face of tragedy.
Tiller elbows me. “You go see him.”
“Why me?” I gasp. “You don’t want to?”
“No, I’ll probably punch him in the face for pullin’ this bullshit, so you go.”
The next ten minutes are nerve-racking. I’m convinced he won’t want to see me. Why would he?
The moment I step foot into his room and see him strapped to a back board, a brace around his neck and his arm in a splint, I burst into tears, my hands over my mouth. “Oh my God,” I breathe, the door shutting slowly behind me.
Do you see him there? Do you notice the swelling in his eyes and the bruises forming? Do you feel the pain in the room, his and mine? Is your heart in pieces?
Mine is. A million scattered tiny shards of what this could mean.
He’s not awake, his eyes are closed, his breathing slow and steady. He’s wearing a neck brace, his arm in a sling and laid flat on his stomach, his body still underneath a thick white blanket.
My watery eyes move around the room and the various machines, but remain focused on him, as if there’s nothing else I can physically focus on.
It’s somewhat strange to see him so calm, not moving when I’ve only ever seen the side of him that’s full of life, laughing and twirling locks of my blonde curls around his fingers and whispering dirty words to me.
I don’t know whether to leave him alone or reach out and touch his hand.
I hesitate before taking a seat, but eventually I do. And I cry, slow tears streaming down my hot cheeks and I do reach for his hand.
It doesn’t move when I hold it. Nothing. No reaction.
Pain hits my chest, immediately. Hecan’tbe paralyzed. He just. . . can’t.
“You’re going to make it through this, Shade,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his cold hand. “You are.”
I wasn’t sure if he would, but I had to hold out hope. For the both of us.
