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“Family of Mr. Novak?”
We both stand as she ushers us out and around what feels like a maze of hallways before taking us to a small room with a curtain pulled in front of a glass door.
“We’re waiting on some test results, but he’s been rather antsy about getting out of here. Maybe the two of you could keep him calm?”
Given all that’s happened in the last two years alone, I bet hospitals are far from his favorite place.
Blair thanks her, and the two of us step inside the room. The lights are off, and the TV is going. It’s too quiet to make out the words, but Shiloh’s eyes are locked on.
Every time we’ve been in this position, I’ve sat at his bedside and offered him a hand that he never took. One time I sat at the edge, and he wrapped his arms around me long enough to expel the pint up sobs held hostage in his chest.
And then he’d whispered, “I fucking hate you,” in my ear, and I’d been so shocked that I sat there unmoving until he literally kicked me off the bed.
The other time, he was barely conscious long enough to know it was me sitting there and not Atlas.
This time, I don’t think he cares.
The gown he has on is a faded blue that looks like it’s been around the block a time or two. His left eye is sporting a bright purple shiner that Blair takes notice of immediately, and I have to hold him back from running to his brother.
There’s a couple of other bruises littered across his neck, including one that looks suspiciously like a handprint.
His arms and legs are covered in scrapes and scratches, and there are dark indents on his wrists.
What did they do to you, Shiloh?
Blair takes a seat beside the bed, phone in his hand like he’s battling with the need to reach out and call Atlas. I stay by the door trying to make sense of how we ended up here.
Shiloh pulls his knees up to his chest, face contorting in pain, but he doesn’t vocalize it. When Blair reaches out, Shiloh wraps his arms around his knees and shies away.
We stay in relative silence for the minutes that follow until there’s a knock at the door. It slides open, and a man in a white coat steps in.
“Shiloh Novak?”
I walk to the foot of the bed to give the man room, and Shiloh looks over with the barest of nods.
“Toxicology is clean. We recommend coming back or going to a clinic in about two weeks for a routine screening to check for STDs. You denied a rape kit, but an exam was still made to check for damage. Some scarring but nothing serious. No broken bones, but your ribs are bruised, so take it easy there. A nurse will stop by in a few minutes to give you some meds for pain—and since you aren’t on birth control, a morning after pill—along with your discharge papers. Any questions?”
Shiloh shakes his head, and the doctor steps outside without another word. I can see the worry lines on Blair’s face, the nervous tapping of his fingers against the phone screen.
I walk around the bed and crouch down beside his chair. “Hey.” I keep my voice low and even. “Step out and give Atlas a call. You don’t have to tell him what’s happening, but let him support you.”
He doesn’t take much convincing, nodding his head and pushing to his feet. “I’ll be right outside.”
Shiloh doesn’t look up or acknowledge that he spoke, and Blair slips out the door with the phone pressed to his ear.
Now it’s just Shiloh and me, and the most intense silence I’ve ever heard.
There’s one of those big plastic cups of water on the counter, and when I pick it up it’s still filled to the brim. Taking a firm step forward, I offer the cup and knock it gently against his leg.
“You should drink.”
He looks at me, but there’s no emotion in his eyes. Just emptiness. “Don’t need it.”
I clear my throat and do my best to level him with a stern look. “You need to take care of yourself.”
He blinks and lifts his head. “I. Don’t. Need. It.”
If this were under any other circumstances, I’d give him the rough treatment his attitude is asking for, but I can’t bring myself to lay even a comforting finger on him.
