“They made it basically impossible to even sit here,” Jake says, shaking his head.
“What do you mean?” Brandon asks.
“Said we weren’t family,” Johanna huffs. “Grayson wore the nurse down, but they didn’t make it easy.”
Tony scoffs from his spot on the floor. “Weareher family. How could they say that?”
“Has anyone called her sisters? Her mom?” Eric asks after a beat.
Rylee untucks herself from his side and pulls out her phone, walking towards the door. “I will. They’ll take it better coming from me.”
I stare down at my hands. They’re still shaking.
Every second that we have to sit here is a new level of agonizing. Just a few hours ago, I was standing in front of twenty thousand people listening to them scream my name, and now…
Now I’m sitting in a poorly lit room, begging God not to take the most important thing in my life away from me.
Then—finally—the door opens, and this time it isn’t a nurse or one of my friends.
A man in navy blue scrubs and a decorative surgical cap steps into the room. His graying hair pokes out of the cap, and his eyes look tired. I can’t read his expression no matter how hard I try.
I stand before he ever says anything, bracing myself for whatever is about to come out of his mouth. Everyone else follows, almost as anxious as I am.
“You must be… Grayson Harris?” he asks, reading my name off his clipboard. “Miss Alexander’s fiancée?”
“What?” Tony blurts from next to me.
“Hush, Tony,” I say quickly. “Yes, that’s me. Is she—God, please—just tell me.”
The doctor nods slowly, as if we have all the time in the world. He motions for us to sit down and takes one of the seats for himself.
“I’m Dr. Hastings. I’m the attending trauma surgeon who operated on Miss Alexander.”
His refusal to use her first name makes my stomach turn.
“She sustained multiple injuries in the crash,” he continues. “The worst of which was the internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, which we removed. Then, there was the Grade III laceration to her liver, which we repaired. She also has two broken ribs, a major concussion, and quite a few superficial lacerations and abrasions.”
Every word feels like an attack. Feels likeIdid those things to her. But I don’t flinch. I need to hear the part that matters.
“Is she alive?” I ask, almost too afraid to say it aloud, but needing to hear the answer.
He finally meets my eyes and nods again.
“She is,” he says. “She’s stable and on her way to recovery. She’s not out of the woods yet—the next twenty-four hours will be critical. But she’s holding on for now.”
“She’s going to make it?” Johanna asks quietly beside me.
“We’re optimistic,” the doctor says. “She’ll be in the ICU overnight, sedated. But she will be allowed one visitor at a time once she’s settled.”
“That will be me,” I insist before anyone else can open their mouth.
No one bothers to argue with me.
“Alright, then,” he says, rising from his chair. “Give the nurses about fifteen minutes to move her and do their post-op exams. Someone will be in to get you when she’s ready.”
I nod, swallowing the pressure that’s been building in my throat.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “For saving her life. For saving mine.”
