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Zeke is laying on the bed, his eyes closed as he breathes deeply and evenly from an oxygen tube beneath his nose. Even from here, I can see the right side of his jaw is puffy and swollen, and beneath his unshaven cheeks, he’s purple and yellow with bruises.
“I need to stand here and read a few emails,” she says, leaning onto the counter at the nurse’s station. I nod, understanding the opportunity she’s giving me. The chance to see him without prying eyes or snooping cameras.
I take a deep breath and press my shaky hand against the door handle, turning it and pushing it open. The room is quiet and cool, save for the gentle whistle coming from his nostrils as he breathes. I wonder if he broke his nose as well?
I’m afraid to move and wake him up. I honestly don’t think I can talk to him right now. I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know how to make anything better. I’m still hurt that he would talk to Liza or put himself in a situation where she would try something like that. And I’m even more hurt that he didn’t try to come to me. If he’d really wanted to make it right, he could have.
And I know I’ve hurt him. I haven’t allowed myself to really think about those last, cruel words we said to each other, or the way it looked like I’d punched him in the stomach when I said I expected him to leave me for someone better. It’s the truth. He could have anyone. So why wouldn’t I think it?
So instead I move quietly, carefully moving my feet so my shoes don’t make any sound and sit in the chair next to his bed.
The tables on either side of the hospital bed are cluttered with cards, balloons, and flowers. He hasn’t even been here for twenty-four hours and his room is a veritable gift shop.
He’s so still though. Too still. I reach out and hover my fingers over his hand. I hesitate, looking at the broken skin on his knuckles. The way Zach described it, I expected Zeke to be beaten to a pulp without having put up a fight. But from his cracked and bloodied knuckles, it’s clear he got in at least a couple good shots.
I let out a deep breath and lower my fingertips to his hand. His heart rate monitor beeps a little faster, and it does something to me. My heart tightens, like it’s being squeezed in a vise. His skin is rough, but warm. He still feels like him. Which is such a weird thing to say, but I think part of me wondered if I would still feel that charge that I always felt when I touched him.
I do. Oh, I do.
But what am I doing here? What am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait for him to wake up and then what? I’m not that girl who just sits around, waiting for someone who will never do for her what she would do for him. I can’t take the scrutiny. The whispers, the gossip, the talk about how he could do better. Maybe it’s just my pride and I should get over it. Maybe I should be stronger. But the truth is, I’m not. Which means even if we can fix this, even if we wanted to, we have an expiration date.
As I stand and retract my head, his eyelids flutter.
“Fehhh?” His voice is scratchy and his speech muffled. Probably from the wire in his jaw. But his eyelids lift, slowly, fixing on my hand, hovering over his.
It’s too much. I can’t be here, not like this. Now that I know he’s okay, that he’s going to be fine and healthy, I can’t stay and wait at his bedside for him to heal, holding his hand and taking care of him. Even if part of me wants to. That’s the most dangerous part to feed right now, because it’s the part that would hurt the most. But I can’t do it when I’m not sure I can be there once he’s better, not when I don’t know if I can be enough for him. It would kill me to go through that again.
I’ve made the decision to leave Portland. There’s no point in fighting through this.
I walk to the door.
“Fehhh,” he tries again.
I turn around, my hand on the doorknob. “The doctors say you’re lucky.”
His eyes open, hazy and glassy from the anesthesia and pain meds, but focused.
“I’m thankful you’re okay,” I say softly.
He blinks slowly. And then swallows hard, wincing.
And then I leave.
Dr. Vox puts away her phone and with a hand at my back, she walks me back to the staff elevators.
“Faye?” Zach calls down the hall behind me.
I turn as he jogs toward me.
“I’m glad he’s okay,” I say, forcing a smile.
Zach stops jogging. Sad understanding spreads across his face. He scrubs a hand down his jaw, trying to mask the disappointed curve of his mouth. “Yeah, well. He’s had good doctors.”
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
I turn before he can stop me and wait outside for an Uber. I sit on the same curb where Zeke picked me up only a few months ago, before I got sucked into the whirlwind of his orbit.
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