Caleb texts a little while later, saying he’s running late, and offers to bring dinner. I tell him not to, and Charlotte and I head into the kitchen to make dinner for her daddy. She’s a little chatterbox today, telling me all about her pretend games and stories she makes up in her head. She’s quiet around most people, but I’ve managed to break through, and now she talks to me like crazy. It feels good, like I’m in on a secret she keeps hidden from most people.
After Caleb gets home, the three of us have spaghetti. He thanks me profusely, and I tell him not to worry about it. I don’t bother telling him about Weston moving out. He’ll find out eventually, but I don’t want him to feel bad about it. He has enough on his plate.
After saying my goodbyes and getting big hugs from Charlotte, I head out. I could go home, but I don’t want to. If he’s there, it will be so tense. If he’s not there, it will be so still. So silent.
Lonely.
I take my laptop to a coffee shop. There’s a table near the back, so I get coffee and settle in to do some work.
It’s quiet, just a low hum of noise filling the air. I should come work here more often. It’s nice. I make progress on my latest edit—which is good because I’m losing so many afternoons to watching Charlotte.
My phone buzzes with a call. It’s Caleb.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask. “Did I leave something at your place?”
“Kendra, listen to me,” Caleb says. The tone of his voice sets me on edge before he gets the next words out. “Weston was in a car accident.”
“Oh my god.” My heart leaps and I sit straight up. “Is he okay?”
“No,” Caleb says. “He’s not okay. He’s alive, but he’s in surgery and honestly, that’s all I know.”
“Holy shit.” I cover my mouth and try to take a deep breath.
“I wish I had more news, but I wasn’t there,” he says. “He’s at Swedish, but I was already off. I know the guy who’s working on him, and he’s in great hands. We don’t have anything to worry about there.”
“Okay, that’s good,” I say. “I just… I don’t even know what to think right now.”
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” he says. “I see this stuff all the time, but when it happens to someone you know it’s pretty surreal.”
“Oh god, Caleb, are you okay?” I ask. His wife died in a car accident, and I bet this is bringing up all sorts of sad memories.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. I just figured you should know what’s going on.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I’ll call you as soon as I hear something,” he says.
“Okay, thanks again.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a long moment. Weston was in an accident. He’s alive, but he’s not okay. He’s in surgery.
I’m sick with worry and I don’t really understand why. He’s a jerk. He was about to move out, and I was happy about it. No more dealing with his bad moods and dickhead comments.
But now I’m imagining him with one of those tubes down his throat, his eyes closed. Is he bloody? Does he have broken bones? Internal bleeding? How serious are we talking? How bad is this?
Is he alone?
There’s no way I can sit here and work. I grab my stuff and head to my car. Maybe I shouldn’t—I’m nobody to him, just a roommate he doesn’t like—but I’m going anyway.
I get to the hospital and ask about him at the front desk. They won’t tell me anything, just ask me to wait. I sit in the lobby for a while, feeling increasingly jittery. And impatient. And frustrated. I watch the clock tick by, one second dragging into the next.
An hour passes, and still no one tells me anything. I haven’t even been brought back to where he’ll be. I’m sitting out by the stupid front doors.
I text Caleb and tell him I’m here, but no one is helping me. He doesn’t answer.
Finally, I go back to the front desk. “Hi, excuse me. I’m here for my, um, friend, Weston Reid. He was in a car accident. I think he was in surgery. My brother is Caleb Lawson, he’s a surgeon here.” I’m going to fucking name-drop like a boss until someone takes me back there. “I’ve been waiting forever and I’m really worried about Weston. Can someone take me… somewhere? I feel like I could at least be in the surgical waiting room.”
A nurse in blue scrubs seems to have overheard. She comes up to the desk. “What’s your name?”
“Kendra Lawson.”
She nods. “I’ll take you.”
She opens a side door for me and I follow her through a maze of hallways to an elevator.
“Do you know if he’s okay?” I ask.
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” she says. “I just overheard you and I know your brother. What’s the patient’s name again?”
“Weston Reid.”
“Dr. Weston Reid?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s him. Do you know him?”
“I know who he is,” she says. “He has surgical privileges here.”
It’s weird, but I’m a little bit relieved she doesn’t say she knows him personally. I’d have to wonder if he’d slept with her. Not that it matters—or is any of my business. But still.
We get out of the elevator and she leads me to a nurses’ station. She types a few things into the computer.
“He’s out of surgery,” she says. “I can take you to his room.”
Relief washes over me. If he’s out of surgery and in a room, that means… well, it means he’s alive and probably not in danger of dying. That’s a start.
My phone buzzes with a text and I check while I follow the nurse down another hallway.
Caleb: Sorry. Are you still waiting? He’s out of surgery.
Me: Yeah, I know. I’m on my way to his room.
Caleb: Wow, you really are there.
Me: Of course I am. What else would I do? Does he have family or anyone else we should call?
Caleb: I called his partner, Ian and left a voicemail. His dad is local. I called, but he didn’t pick up. Left a message. I don’t know of anyone else.
Me: Okay.
Caleb: Do you need me to come down?
Me: Isn’t Charlotte in bed?
Caleb: Yeah.
Me: No, it’s fine. Get some sleep. You probably haven’t slept in a while.
Caleb: I haven’t.
Me: Then definitely sleep. I’ve got this.
Caleb: Thanks sis.
The nurse stops outside a room and peeks through the curtain. “He’s in here, but he’s sleeping. The nurse taking care of him this shift is Joel. He’ll be able to give you more information.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “I really appreciate this.”
She smiles. “No problem. Good luck.”
With a deep breath, I duck through the curtain.
I take a few halting steps into the room, clutching my phone. I don’t even recognize the man in the bed. A nasal cannula rests below his nose and he’s hooked up to an IV. His eyes are closed, his skin sallow. One arm is in a cast, from his wrist to his shoulder. His face is bruised, parts of it swollen. Both lips are split. He has a bandage that winds across his forehead. I can’t even tell what’s going on with the rest of his body. He’s covered in blankets, his torso and legs a shapeless lump beneath them.
“Oh god, Weston,” I say, my voice nothing but a whisper.
I reach out and tentatively touch his hand. His skin is cold. The monitors beep and I watch his heart rate go up and down across the screen. I know he’s alive and breathing, but his hand is like ice. It’s disconcerting.
There’s a chair nearby, so I pull it close to the bed and sit. I wonder if his dad is on his way. That might be a little awkward. He’s going to walk in and see some woman sitting here with his son. I suppose I’ll tell him I’m a friend. Or his roommate. I don’t know. Are we friends? Are we still roommates?
I guess it doesn’t matter now. I’m here, and I’ll stay until someone else comes. I don’t want him to be alone.
The c
urtain pulls back and a tall, dark-skinned guy wearing scrubs comes in. “Hi, I’m Joel. I’m Dr. Reid’s nurse tonight.”
“Kendra,” I say. “I’m Weston’s friend.”
“It’s good of you to come,” Joel says. “He’s doing well, considering. I take it the accident was pretty bad.”
“What can you tell me?” I ask. “I literally know nothing, except he was in an accident, and now…” I gesture toward him.
Joel goes to the computer near the curtain. “Dr. Reid came in via ambulance, unresponsive but breathing. He had acute external injuries including bruising and lacerations, possible broken bones. Once he was here, it was determined he had internal bleeding. Lacerations of both the spleen and liver. He underwent surgery to repair the internal damage.” He looks over at me. “Surgery was successful, but he’s in bad shape. He’s going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up. We’ll do our best to keep him comfortable while he’s here.”
“How long do you think he’ll be here?” I ask.
“Hard to say right now,” he says. “I’d guess five days, depending on how he does.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You can expect him to be tired and groggy for a while. Or he might sleep through the night at this point.” He brings out what looks like a remote control, but it’s connected by a thick wire. “This has a nurse call button. If he wakes up when you’re here, feel free to alert me. But I’ll be back regularly to check on him.”
“Thanks,” I say.
Joel leaves through the curtain and I’m left alone with the beeping monitor. Weston’s so still; he hasn’t so much as flinched. I take his hand, sliding mine below his so our palms touch. I place my other hand over the top of his. He’s so cold.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “I doubt you can hear me, but you’re going to be fine. I’m just going to hang out here until your dad comes, okay?”
My only answer is the incessant beeping and a low buzz as the blood pressure cuff starts to inflate.
“You just rest now,” I say. “Rest and get better. I’ll stay.”
I squeeze his hand and move one of the blankets so his hand is covered, careful not to mess with his IV. I lean back in my chair and try to get comfortable. Weston doesn’t move and after a while, my eyes get heavy. I scoot the chair closer and lean forward, laying my head on my arms on the edge of the bed. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes. I’m sure he’ll either wake up soon, or someone else will come. Until then, I’ll rest.
8
Weston
Beep. Beep. Beep.
My eyes don’t want to open, but that fucking beeping is pissing me off. Is it my alarm? It doesn’t sound right. What day is it? Why won’t my eyes open?
I pry my eyelids apart and wince. Everything hurts. Literally every part of my body registers pain. The flood of agony makes it hard to breathe. Something tickles my nose and I try to swat it away, but my right arm won’t move. I blink a few times, but nothing makes sense.
Where the fuck am I?
The beeping comes into focus; it’s a cardiac monitor. And it’s hooked up to me.
I try to take a deep breath, but I wince. It hurts like a motherfucker. Things are coming back now. I was driving. My car. Was I alone? Yeah, I was alone. I don’t know how it happened, but I must have been in an accident. It’s so hazy, I can’t remember much. One second I was driving down the freeway, and the next all hell broke loose. It was that fast—absolute chaos. There was crunching and spinning. Did my car roll over? I’m not sure.
I remember being slammed around, harder than you can imagine. Blood in my mouth. In my eyes. And pain. So much fucking pain. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. I knew I needed help, but I couldn’t move to get to my phone. I didn’t know if anyone was around. Did anyone stop? Was someone calling for help?
A moment of terror that I was going to die before they could get to me, then everything started to fade.
That’s it. That’s all I remember. Everything else is muddled and hazy.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. It feels like minutes. I’ve lost time, my brain not comprehending the passage of hours—days?—since the accident. It’s an awful feeling, almost as bad as the agony that presses on my chest.
My eyes are closed again, so I force them open. I need to wake up and assess the damage. My right arm won’t move and I look down at it. There’s a cast from my shoulder down to my wrist. Bent elbow. Fuck, that’s not a good sign. I try to wiggle my fingers, but they’re slow—swollen and thick.
A thread of panic tries to uncurl itself in my chest. I’m a surgeon. My entire life depends on my hands. I wiggle my fingers again. They’re moving. At least they’re moving. I’ll have to hold on to that for now, until I can talk to whoever put me back together.
Another breath tells me there’s something wrong with my torso. Ribs, maybe. But I think it’s more than rib damage. My left hand is free, except for the IV. I gingerly touch my chest and move down, probing for what might be wrong. Left side, just below my ribs. It’s very tender. Maybe an incision. Was I in surgery? I don’t know.
I test my feet, moving my toes, then rolling my ankles. Sore, but I don’t think I have serious injuries there. Bend my knees. Same thing. My legs ache, but neither of them are immobilized. They move.
Come to think of it, I’m lying at a slight incline, so chances are my spine is okay.
It’s hard to keep my eyes open. I’m so tired. The room is dim, and a clock on the wall reads seven sixteen. Is that morning? I think back to what I can remember. It was after eight when I was driving. Maybe I’ve only lost one night. Maybe it’s the next day.
I wonder if anyone’s been here, but I dismiss the idea quickly. Who the fuck would come? I guess it’s possible Caleb knows I’m here. If I’m at Swedish, it’s his hospital. If I had surgery, he could have been the one to do it. That’s a weird thought. I think Caleb knows my dad’s name, but even if someone did get in touch with him, he won’t come. He’ll find a way to make this about me being weak or inept. He won’t give a shit—won’t have time to deal with it.
I don’t want it to, but that thought tightens my chest and I grind my teeth. Fuck him.
Someone walks by rolling a cart, the wheels rattling against the hard floor. When the noise disappears down the hallway, I’m suddenly aware of another sound in my room. It’s softer than the beeping of the cardiac monitor. So soft I wonder if I’m imagining things.
I turn my head. How the hell didn’t I realize it before? Someone else is in here.
She’s sitting in a chair, leaning forward with her head on the edge of the bed. Her dark hair is loose, spilling around her shoulders, a tendril lying across her forehead. Her eyes are closed and her back moves up and down with the movement of her breath.
Is that Kendra?
My brow furrows and I stare at her. Am I hallucinating? I blink again, trying to make my eyes focus.
It is Kendra. What the hell is she doing here?
A tall guy in scrubs comes in. His eyes flick to Kendra and when he speaks, his voice is quiet, so he won’t wake her. “Dr. Reid, good, you’re awake. I’m Joel, your nurse, although I’m about to hand you over to the next shift. Do you know where you are?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Swedish Hospital.”
“Do you know what day it is?” he asks.
“Monday. Morning, I think.”
“That’s right,” he says. “You arrived last night. You were in a car accident. Do you remember that?”
“Barely.”
He nods. “That’s okay, very normal. You sustained multiple injuries, including fractures to your right arm, and a ruptured liver and spleen. You had surgery last night. You’re going to be okay, but you have a lot of healing to do. How’s your pain level?”
Fucking awful, but I don’t want more drugs. “Fine.” My eyes flick down to Kendra, still sound asleep.
“She got here just after they brought you out of surgery,” he
says.
“Really?”
He nods. “Yeah.”
I can’t stop staring at Kendra. “She was here all night?”
“Yes,” he says. “She said she’s your friend?”
I nod. My friend? Is she? Last time I saw her, I was kind of a dick. I blamed her because I didn’t hook up with some girl whose name I’ve already forgotten, and I told her I was moving out.
Why would she come here? After all that stuff I said to her.
I shouldn’t ask, but I find myself doing it anyway. “Has anyone else been here?”
Joel shakes his head. “No. Just her.” He pauses and looks at her again. “She wouldn’t leave.”
I don’t have a reply to that. I just keep staring at her.
“I’ll let you rest for now. The doctor will be in to see you later.” He leaves, the curtain dropping down behind him.
Kendra’s lips part and she takes a deep breath. Her brow creases and she shifts a little, her eyes still closed. That chair has to be uncomfortable as hell.
There’s a wispy memory, tugging at the corner of my consciousness. Kendra’s hands, warm against mine. Her voice soft, telling me I’m going to be okay. That she’s here, and she’ll stay.
She’ll stay.
I tear my eyes away from her. Obviously it was a dream. Even if she did talk to me when I was asleep, I wouldn’t have been able to hear her. I don’t remember anything else. How could I have been aware of something like that?
But her voice seems so clear.
I have too many drugs in my system. I can’t think straight.
She moves again and draws in a quick breath, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. “Oh, hey. You’re awake.”
“Yeah.”
She stands and stretches her arms above her head. Wincing, she rubs her lower back. “Let me go get you some water. Your throat must be so dry.”
Before I can tell her not to, she disappears behind the curtain.
Cocky Roommate Page 5
