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With both of us resting on the arm of the chair between us, his fingers lift over mine. “You’re an amazing person, Story. I can’t imagine how difficult it was caring for yourself and the baby when you felt alone.”
“I didn’t feel alone. I was alone. But don’t get me wrong. I was pregnant, but I was also devastated that you were gone.”
His fingers leave mine, making me wonder if it’s a punishment for making him feel bad or because he’s struggling through this like I am. Cooper rests forward with his elbows on his knees. Turning to look me in the eyes, he says, “You didn’t love me anymore.”
Though his voice is resolved like this is old news finally sinking in, it’s a harsh allegation to put out. A shiver runs up my spine as my pulse starts racing. “Why would you say that? Is that what you believed?”
“I had no choice in what to believe. You walked away and left me.”
The mere accusation is offensive, but that argument is blurrier in my memories. So much was happening. I had the papers to process, the rain and something happened to my umbrella. Cooper passed out in that car and then was hungover. I sit up and look around the waiting room. Others have cleared out over the past few hours, including Lila and Jake, but we’re here together. Shouldn’t that mean more than our hurt feelings?
Holding two fingers to my temple, I say, “I don’t remember everything from that day, but I know I never said goodbye.”
“Telling me I broke you is the same thing.”
The words are sharp and cut deep. The pain in his voice from that day is fresh. I grip the chair as my heart shatters on the cold linoleum—for him and for me, for the misunderstandings that complicated our past and the events that ruined our future. I whisper, “It wasn’t the same thing for me.”
This isn’t a conversation I ever thought I’d be having, especially not while waiting for doctors to put my child’s broken arm back together. When his head lowers into his hands, I don’t hesitate to reach over and rub his back again to comfort him. Not only for him. For me. The simple act of bonding with him makes me feel better as well.
It’s not hurried, and he doesn’t move away, but he looks at me again, and through the exchange comes a different kind of understanding—acceptance.
He’s not the bad guy.
And I’m not the hero.
We’re caught somewhere between the two.
I glance over when the doors down the hall slide open, my stress peaking. “What’s taking so long?” I ask in frustration.
“He’ll be in recovery before he’s moved into a room.”
I turn to him. It’s not his words that calm me, but his voice. A smile, feeble at best, is all I can currently manage, “As a doctor, don’t you have privileges?” I shift again, my back now aching.
Leaning back again, he crosses an ankle over the opposite knee. “What kind of privileges would those be?”
Rolling my wrist, I say, “You know, for information and access. Stuff like that.”
His gaze travels past me to the nurses’ station before he pushes to his feet. “This isn’t my hospital, but it’s worth a try.”
“Thank you,” I say, punching the air in encouragement. If he can get any information, it would be better than what we have now.
He’s up there too long, leaning on the high counter as if two long-lost friends have run into each other. And the nurse is a little too into it. I roll my eyes, but he catches me as he returns. Smirking, he asks, “What’s that about?”
“Nothing. Any update?”
“There were no complications, and he’s recovering just fine.”
An audible sigh of relief escapes me. “That’s good news.” I don’t know why I reach for his hand, but ours slip together so easy, and I squeeze. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He squeezes mine right back, and we sit there holding hands until a nurse finally comes out looking for us . . . looking for me.
“Mrs. Salenger?” My eyes dart to Cooper and then to the nurse.
I stand. “It’s Ms.”
The nurse continues, “Everything went well. The doctor is finishing with another emergency that came in. Come on back. I’ll take you to Reed’s room where she’ll talk to you in there.”
We start walking, but then I stop and look back.
As if she can read my mind, the nurse says, “I’m sorry, we can only have one visitor at a time since it’s after dinner.”
Cooper gives me a reassuring nod. I soak it in, remembering how I always felt safe and cared for with him around. “Thank you,” I mouth, turn back, and keep walking, not sure if I’ll see him again tonight.
After going over everything with the doctor and hearing the care instructions for when I take him home, I check on Reed, covering him with the blanket and making sure water is ready on the side table for when he wakes up. The sound of my son’s heartbeat through the monitor gives me comfort, knowing it’s strong and steady. I eventually sit on the vinyl loveseat, not sure if it will be an hour or three before he wakes.
