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She mouths the word hi and bursts into tears, clamping a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs.
I can’t do anything to console her. I’m hooked up to machines. There’s an IV in one arm and a nearly empty bag of blood in the other.
As quickly as the sobbing started, it stops. Winter takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. She leans over to press soft kisses to my forehead and cheeks, and eventually my lips. My mouth tastes like I ate a bag of assholes, and I feel like an actual bag of smashed assholes, so I don’t try to slip her the tongue. But I think about it, and that tells me I’m probably going to be fine. At least mentally. Physically is another story.
When she pulls back, her eyes are still watery and tears track down her cheeks, but she smiles. “I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers.
“Me too.” It’s a craggy rasp. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“Should I?”
Before she can answer, I’m startled by a loud snore. I turn my head and immediately regret the movement, because the pain that shoots through my head steals my vision.
My mom startles awake, and the second her eyes focus, she shoves my dad’s shoulder and launches herself out of the chair she was awkwardly sleeping in. In fact, all three of them have been sleeping in chairs. Winter got the worst deal, though. Her chair looks like it was pulled out of a dumpster.
My dad jerks awake as my mom’s hands move in the air like she’s trying to take flight. And then, just like Winter, she bursts into tears. Hers are far from silent.
My dad shoots out of the chair and wraps his arms around her while she falls apart. I wish I could do that for Winter… My brain is sluggish, and I’m already so tired again.
“Here, take a sip.” Winter lifts a bendy straw to my lips. I suck, and even that small thing takes monumental effort. But the cool wetness coats my tongue and slides down my throat. “He’s only been awake for about a minute,” she says to my parents. “I think it’s all a bit overwhelming.”
My mom’s wailing quiets to soft sniffles, punctuated by hiccups. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as she approaches the bed. She cups my face in her hands and presses her lips to my forehead. “I am so glad you’re okay.”
My dad’s voice is gruff. “You scared the hell out of us, son.”
“What happened?” I ask again.
Mom purses her lips, and her jaw tightens.
“You had an accident on the ice,” Dad replies, pulling Mom against his side. He bends to kiss the top of her head.
I search my memory for the events I know must have taken place. I vaguely remember the knee to the chest. And then pain. A lot of it. “Bad lift. Is Adele okay?”
“She’s fine,” Mom bites out.
“Okay. Good. I didn’t want to drop her.” I remember that much. The overcorrection too.
My dad and Winter exchange a look.
“Lily, why don’t you and I get Randall some fresh water?” Winter says.
She doesn’t use my full name often—mostly when she’s in the middle of an orgasm—so it’s a bit of a shock to hear it now.
But Mom nods, and Winter wraps her arm around her shoulder. “We’ll be back in a minute.” She guides her toward the door. Always taking care of other people.
Dad pulls his chair closer and drops into it. He looks exhausted, like this has aged him a decade.
“Mom okay?” My voice is still raspy.
“Okay is a relative term.” He folds his hands and drops his head, taking a couple of deep breaths. When his gaze lifts, his eyes are shiny. “It was a really close call, son.” Another deep breath. “We almost lost you.”
“I guess that explains why I feel like I went a round in the ring with death.”
He gives me a look. “Not a good time for jokes.”
“I’m not laughing.”
