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In the quiet, amidst the beeps and background noise, the shuffle of feet in the hallway and murmured voices in this building filled with injured people like me, I melt. I relent. Every muscle that has spent the past four years on alert, tense and ready to fight or flee, gives in.
I give in to Drew’s touch. I give in to the idea that I have held for so long, deep inside my core, that this moment, this truth, is greater than my fear.
All these years, I’ve held on to the fear that Drew did nothing. As I fade off to sleep his warm breath tickling my neck, his hands secure around my ribs, his chest steady against my back, a new truth emerges. And truth always defeats fear.
But on its own timeline.
Chapter 37
I wake up to an empty hospital bed and a thermometer.
“Lindsay?” Someone wearing scrubs is holding a plastic-covered thermometer over my mouth. “We need to take your temp.”
I open my mouth like a good girl, let her slide the thermometer under my tongue, and close my lips. A tooth aches in my mouth.
Where’s Drew?
The medical assistant finishes taking my temperature, blood pressure, and checking my oxygen. All normal.
“When can I go home?” I ask.
“The doctor will be in later to talk to you,” she replies, leaving quickly.
Sunlight peeks in around the edges of the curtains. The door closes behind her. I hear men’s voices in the hallway, and then the door opens.
Drew.
And he’s carrying to-go cups of coffee.
“I hope one of those is for me,” I say.
He laughs.
“I don’t ever joke about coffee.”
He goes serious and looks down. He shrugs. “Here. Have mine.”
I grimace. He didn’t bring me any. My lip hurts. I must have split it. “You drink yours black. I hate black coffee.”
“Someone’s feeling feisty today.”
Our eyes meet and we grin like idiots at each other.
Drew walks to me and hands me a coffee. “Just kidding. I got you one in case.”
“You’re a god.”
“You finally noticed.”
Something between us has changed. Shifted. Morphed. Was it the cuddling last night? I fell asleep in his arms and slept for the first time in ages. Real sleep. Dreamless sleep.
Healing sleep. A part of me wants to call Stacia and tell her that four years of medications, yoga, group therapy, one-on-one therapy, that one electroshock treatment, and all the meditation doesn’t compare to one solid night in Drew’s arms.
But I can’t.
I lick my lip. Yep. Split. Gingerly, I navigate the coffee cup to my mouth and take a small sip.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I let out a shaky sigh. The fluorescent lights in the tiny room filled with machines and plastic gives me a mild case of claustrophobia.
