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Half an hour later, the wound on my head is clean, a cast on, and a sling holds it in place. As I perch on the side of the bed looking at the wrist that’s covered from my fingernails to my elbow, I can’t help but feel slightly pissed off that I didn’t break my other wrist. My scarred one.
“Do you have any shoes?” the nurse asks as she finishes up.
I peek down to my dangling feet. Then up my body to James’s shorts and T-shirt. “No.” I slip off the bed, my arm feeling like a kettlebell held against my chest.
“Then you’ll have to get that big, strong man to carry you.” She gives me an impish grin that I struggle to return. “I’ll let him know you’re ready.” She leaves, closing the door behind her, and I take a moment to build up the courage I need to face my uncle and James. I bet the tension outside this room is horrific. I also need to think about what the heck I’m going to do, because I know James will be expecting me to go home with him and Lawrence will be expecting otherwise.
I pad on my bare feet to the door, pensive, and pull it open. James is the first person I see. He’s sitting on a plastic chair, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. His face is a roadmap of angry lines. Then I clock Lawrence. Standing. His face is a roadmap of contempt. My eyes pass between the two, my mind giving me no heads-up of what to say.
“You’re coming home with me,” James says, breaking the uncomfortable silence, rising from the chair.
Lawrence snorts his thoughts on that. “She’s going nowhere with you.”
I inhale some patience. “I—”
The doors down the corridor burst open and Ollie appears, pacing determinedly. And with him, Dexter. I fold on the inside, sighing. Anyone else?
And like a fucked-up, sick omen, my father breezes in too. Who the hell called him?
Ollie’s expression is pure concern. Dexter looks plain wary. And my father, someone pinch me, looks genuinely troubled.
Another few elements just got added to the already prickly mix. I don’t need this. Not now, not ever.
Ollie spots me and rushes over, scanning me from top to toe. “Jesus, Beau, are you okay?” I’m hugged awkwardly around my cast, and there is nothing I can do to stop him. “Lawrence called me.”
I clench my teeth, closing my eyes to avoid whatever look might be getting tossed this way from James. I can’t imagine it’s pleasant. Lawrence needs to back the hell off. “I’m fine,” I whisper, leaving my good arm dangling by my side, unable and unwilling to return his embrace. I wriggle a little, breaking away. “You shouldn’t have come.” I risk a peek at James, and turn to ash where I stand. I can see he’s physically holding himself back, his eyes raging pits of fury.
“What on earth happened?” my father asks, his fine-suited form muscling Ollie out of the way, his big palms taking my shoulders and holding me in place. I look at him, blank. Devoid of feelings.
“I fell,” I say quietly. “I’m okay.” I move back, uncomfortable with my father fussing over me, which is plain backward after years of wondering why he finds it so hard to give me affection. And I can’t deny my fear that with one call from him, I could be sent back to a psychiatric hospital.
“Beau?” Dexter asks quietly, ever the pacifying, gentle soul. I look at him, and his expression alone, never mind his soft tone, makes my lip wobble.
“I’m fine,” I say for the thousandth time.
“I’ll take you home.” Ollie moves back in. “Why are you wearing a guy’s T-shirt and shorts?”
The sound of a throat being cleared fills the corridor, courtesy of James, and I watch, nervous as shit, as Ollie turns to find the source. “They’re mine,” James says clearly.
Fuck.
I don’t need this. Two men snarling, me between them. “Who the fuck are you?” my ex asks.
“Good question,” Dad pipes in, as if he has the right to that information. James doesn’t entertain their demands, remaining silent, so Ollie turns to Lawrence.
“Is this him?” he asks, motioning to James.
“Who?” Dad asks, his eyes swaying back and forth between James and Ollie. “Not the man she’s been seeing?” He turns a hostile look James way. “You? You did this to her?”
I stare at my father, flummoxed. Don’t tell me he’s choosing now to play the protective father?
“I’ll have you locked up,” he spits, as Ollie starts pacing toward James, his arm locking and loading. Oh no.
“Ollie!” I yell, going after him. “Ollie, stop.”
“You ever touch her again . . .” he snarls, throwing a punch.
“Ollie!”
He misses when James leans back, the force of his swing sending Ollie spinning, but he gathers himself quickly, heaving, and has another go. James’s hand flies up and catches Ollie’s fist in his palm, and he claws his fingers around my ex’s clenched hand, squeezing, holding it in place before his face. He says nothing, just stares at Ollie, who is a little wide-eyed, his eyes bouncing between James’s lethal expression and his seized fist.
