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Jane reached down for my hand and squeezed, but surprisingly, Brandon pulled off his hat and stepped forward.
"I'd like to stay, if you're okay with it." Brandon's voice was low, and he focused on the brim of his hat, clutched in his large hands.
Beside me, Jane tensed. Bubbe and Dad glanced between Brandon and me, clearly lost on the tension between us.
I swallowed. "Are you––are we––are you going to..."
I couldn't quite ask if he was going to leave me afterward. I wasn't sure I could bear his support now if I was only going to lose it as soon as I was well enough to leave the hospital.
Brandon didn't say anything, but met my gaze, his eyes dark, pain-riddled sapphires. I swallowed again and looked at the doctor.
"He can stay," I mumbled.
Jane squeezed my hand and followed my dad and Bubbe out of the room. Brandon pulled the heavy hospital chair next to the bed and sat down to witness the doctor's exam with me.
It didn't take long. A few checks of my reflexes, a light shined in my eyes. When she scratched a fingernail down the bottom of my foot, I winced, but the doctor nodded approvingly. Immediately, I felt my left hand captured by Brandon's and squeezed lightly. The calming effect was immediate, and my heart rate slowed.
"Well, you're looking pretty good, kiddo," said Dr. Gibbons. "Especially for someone who had the stuffing beaten out of her." She stood at the end of the bed and marked a few things off on my chart. "Your dad said you're a lawyer?"
"I––" The words clogged in my throat. "I just took the bar. I was supposed to start my job on Monday."
Shit. Did Kieran know what had happened? Was I still going to have my job at Kiefer Knightly?
Brandon squeezed my hand again.
"You're fine," he murmured. "I talked to Kieran."
I relaxed and listened to Dr. Gibbons as she rattled down the laundry list of everything that Messina had done.
"As assaults go, I've definitely seen worse," she said. "The bruising looks scarier than it really is. You've got a bunch of contusions that will fade within a week or so. A couple of cracked ribs and the fracture in your cheekbone, but there's nothing to be done about those besides rest and no contact sports. You'll have to hold off on that UFC championship until next year."
The doctor chuckled at her own joke. Beside me, Brandon huffed. Great. We got a comedian here.
"We were a little worried since you were out for so long, but honestly, sometimes that's just the body's way of insisting on its own healing process." Dr. Gibbons shrugged. "It's sort of a mystery sometimes why it does what it does. But we'll want to do a CT scan before you leave just to make sure there's no brain bleeding or anything like that. Of course, the fact that you're awake and seem to have most of your memory is a great sign."
I just stared at her. It wasn't the slightest bit comforting to hear that they weren't totally sure I was going to be okay.
Beside me, Brandon spoke up. "What about her ankle?"
My head swiveled down to my feet, suddenly recalling the way Messina had tossed me into the back of the van. I didn't feel anything right now. The IV sticking into my arm caught my eye. Ah, pain meds.
The doctor nodded. "Honestly, that's the worst of it. It's a decent sprain, Ms. Crosby. You'll need to stay off it for about two weeks. But really, the more you can move it, the better." She rattled off a few physical therapy moves I could do at home.
"How––" I cleared my throat, which was still scratchy. "How long do you think I'll be off work?"
The doctor frowned. "It's hard to say. I'd like to get the results back from your CT scan first, and then we'll go from there. But if nothing shows up, I'd probably suggest a week or so, given the severity of the rest of your injuries. At minimum, you sustained a nasty concussion, so jumping into a brain-heavy job like a being a new lawyer probably isn't going to help you heal. You need rest. Do you have a good place to go for that? Where someone can take care of you?"
I froze. The gravity of what had just happened suddenly hit me: I had been kidnapped by a thug. From my apartment. A man who also knew where my father and grandmother lived. Who would undoubtedly be angry when he discovered the ransom left for him was a trap. I shrank back into my pillow.
"She does. She'll be staying with me."
I blinked over to Brandon. He gave my hand a brief squeeze, and then let go. What? My brain wasn't working fast enough to respond. My eyelids started to droop. Already I was feeling tired again.
The doctor nodded. "Good," she said. "That's good. Well, an attendant will be by shortly to take you down to Radiology. Meanwhile, someone from the local precinct will come take your statement."
"What?" I look up to the doctor, who just smiled sympathetically.
"Matthew Zola was here," Brandon murmured. "I've already given my statement, but they need yours too."
