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The walk to the elevator takes so much longer than it usually does, inching our way with him leaning on me and the wall.
Worry eats at me the entire time. What’s wrong with him? Will he have to have surgery? Will he be able to play hockey? If he has surgery, how long will he be in the hospital? How long until he can play again?
He’s sweating, and a tear falls down his face by the time we get into the elevator. I brush the tear away and kiss his hair.
The ride is quick since it’s the middle of the night and no one else is awake at this hour. It’s cold outside, but he won’t be able to make it all the way to his car in the parking lot.
“Sit here,” I tell him and help him sit on the curb. “I’ll get the car and be right back.”
He doesn’t argue, just curls into himself and breathes.
I run to his car and get it unlocked. It’s been a while since it’s been driven, so I have to try twice before it starts, then hustle my way to him. It’s in park and I’m around the front of the car before Paul even looks up. I help him into the car, buckle his seat belt, then pull up the directions to the closest hospital on my phone.
Luckily, it’s not too far and there’s no traffic, but every bump in the road and turn has Paul groaning. I hate how helpless I feel right now. I’m not a doctor, I don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s bad. There’s a deep pang in my bones, vibrating through me with every beat of my heart. Paul takes care of me, not the other way around. I’m a fucking mess.
At the ER entrance, I stop and run inside for a wheelchair so he doesn’t have to walk, then help him from the car. Once he’s inside talking to the nurse, I hurry out to park. Of course, it’s a weird parking garage, and I end up going in the out driveway because it’s dark and I’m not paying attention.
I have to back out and hope not to hit anything, which I barely manage. Once I’m inside and find a parking spot, I run down the ramp toward the ER, but Paul isn’t in the waiting room anymore. There isn’t anyone in the waiting room, actually. That seems weird for a city like Denver, but I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Excuse me, did Paul Johnson get taken back? I just brought him in,” I ask the lady at the desk.
She flicks her gaze at me, then back at the computer screen. “Yes.”
I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t say anything else.
“Can I go back there with him?” I ask, pointing to the door.
She sighs heavily but hits a button, and the door buzzes. I hustle to the door and push it open. I have no idea where I’m going, but I’ll figure it out.
A tall woman in blue scrubs and black cat-eye-shaped glasses stops me with a raised eyebrow.
“Can I help you?” Her no-nonsense tone has me swallowing my own damn tongue.
“Um. Uh.” I swallow and try again. “I’m looking for my friend who was just brought back here, Paul Johnson.”
“Brendon.” Paul’s voice comes from behind a curtain to my left, and the woman nods, letting me pass.
Paul is propped up in a hospital bed looking miserable. I grab the plastic chair and pull it up next to his bed and hold his hand.
“Hey, what are they saying?” I’m eager for information, to know he’s going to be okay.
“Nothing yet. Gotta talk to the doctor.” Paul turns on his side facing me and leans his forehead against the edge of the mattress. I lean in, my arm around his head, and press my lips to his forehead.
I fucking hate this. He’s clearly in pain, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. It’s just a bunch of hurry up and wait.
His skin is sticky with sweat, probably from being in pain, and he’s tapping his foot. It’s making me antsy. I want to fix it.
A woman with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, blue scrubs, and a white lab coat over the top comes in.
“Hi, my name is Dr. Nora Prow,” she says as she pulls up Paul’s chart.
He tells her about the pain and vomiting, how he woke up with it, all while not moving from the crook of my arm. She asks him some questions, then asks him to roll onto his back. He groans but does it, throwing his arm over his eyes and not letting go of my hand.
The doctor lifts his shirt and pushes on his stomach. His hand tightens around mine to a painful grip, and he yells. His legs try to come up like he’s going to curl into a ball, but he’s able to force them back down.
“Okay, let’s get some labs drawn and some pain meds on board.” She makes a note in the chart. “How would you rate your pain on a level from one to ten, with ten being the worst pain you could ever imagine?”
Paul thinks about it for a second, then says, “I don’t know, like five or six?”
