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The one that still didn’t feel right.
“I don’t know how much you remember—if you remember anything at all—but you were out for a walk,” he said.
A walk.
That memory was a bit fuzzy, but snippets flashed through my head of my mom’s smile and the dress I’d chosen and the champagne the sales associate had poured to celebrate, and then things got even hazier, but I remembered the sweat beading across my forehead while I’d been walking.
Why couldn’t I recall returning home from the walk?
“You were only about six blocks from our condo when a woman ran a red light. In doing so, she caused a series of events, starting with a biker who was in the crosswalk at the time. To get out of the car’s way, he veered into the sidewalk. He didn’t turn enough, and he clipped you on your side. Since he was behind you, there was no way you could have seen him or moved out of the way. You had absolutely no warning.”
I mashed my lips together, hoping to find enough liquid to move my tongue.
To respond.
To ask the questions that were pouring in so fast, I was overflowing.
“There were multiple witnesses,” he continued, “and one was a woman who stayed with you until the ambulance arrived. She even came to the hospital to check on you, and she told me the whole story.” He pushed the hair off my forehead, his fingers staying there, rubbing. “The impact of the bike punctured your spleen and caused you to bleed internally, which was repaired during surgery once you arrived at the hospital. That, along with the two ribs you broke, will take some time to heal, and you’re going to have to take it easy. Your X-rays also showed a broken wrist, so that’s been cast.” His hand moved to my cheek. “The doctor says that as long as your vitals and blood work continue to stay stable, I’ll be able to take you home in a day, two max.”
A punctured spleen?
Two broken ribs?
A broken wrist?
I hadn’t noticed the thick cast when I’d scanned the room, but it was there. Wrapped from the middle of my hand all the way to my elbow.
This was . . . so much.
“You’ll have the cast on for at least six weeks,” he told me.
Six weeks.
Why did it feel like something was happening within that time frame?
A nest of thoughts began to build in my mind, each layer weaving more pieces together until it hit me.
“Wedding,” I croaked the second my tongue allowed me to.
“Yes, baby. You’ll have the cast on for the wedding.”
Emotion hit me out of nowhere.
In my eyes.
On my cheeks.
But it didn’t stay long.
Grayson was sweeping away the wetness, cleaning what had fallen and stopping what was about to. “Listen to me, Jovana. You’re alive. You’re going to fully recover. That’s what matters. Things could have been so much worse. Whether you have a cast on for the wedding or not, you’re going to look breathtakingly beautiful.”
I ached.
Not because there would be an ugly cast in all our photos, but because this had happened, because he was here to tell me the story, because he was under contract to marry me.
I loved this man.
I loved the way he stroked my cheek, collecting my tears, absorbing my emotion like he was trying to suck the sadness out of my body.
