BOOK 3: CHAPTER 41 - DREAMERS (2)
Zeke nods and goes to the desk, starts talking with the woman there. “You called him?” Jacob demands, coming up behind me. “I need to know he’s going to be taken care of. Zeke’s interests and Timothy’s are aligned. At least right now.” Rae strips off her sweatshirt and holds it out to me. I stare at her, confused as to why she’s offering me clothes when I have my own. But when she keeps holding out the shirt, I look down at my dress and jacket, caked in blood. When I start shaking instead of reaching for Rica’s sweatshirt, Andie takes my hand and walks me to the bathroom. Rica’s close on our heels. Inside the clean six-stall ladies’ room, I strip off my jacket and shove it in the garbage, revulsion taking over. Then I wash the blood off my hands, from under my fingernails. The liquid soap doesn’t do the best job, and I wish I had one of those bar soaps or an old toothbrush or something. “It’ll come out later.” Rica’s voice is calm, and it takes the edge off as I meet her steady gaze in the mirror. I pull the sweatshirt over my dress, grateful it’s at least hiding the blood. Andie leans against one wall, looking paler than usual. “You okay?” I ask her. She lifts a shoulder. “My dad died in a hospital. It took a long time.” I hug her, for both of us, and she hugs me back. Rica watches, and even though she’s not part of this impromptu group hug, it feels like it. She’s part of the moment, and their presence gives me strength. When we get back outside, the waiting room includes Jacob, a handful of strangers, and Zeke. The ER doctor comes into the waiting room. “Miss Carlton?” But we’re all on our feet as one while I say, “How is he?” “He lost a significant amount of blood through a deep laceration in his forearm and hand. We’ve cleaned them, stitched them up. Not life-threatening. Your quick thinking helped keep it from getting there.” If it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been there. We wouldn’t have been walking home. If I hadn’t worn his ring around my neck, hadn’t made him fight for it, we would be back at his place right now. “Miss Carlton.” “What?” I blurt, shaking myself. “Is Timothy right hand dominant?” I nod. “That should make recovery easier. He won’t be doing anything with his left hand for some time.” A noise makes me realize I’ve dropped my bag on the floor. Zeke answers for me. “The kid’s a guitarist. He’s going on tour in two weeks. He needs to play.” The doctor stares down the executive. “We’ve moved him to a private room. In time, he’ll be able to look at options for reconstructive surgery. But playing guitar in two weeks is out of the question.” The reality of it settles around us, leaving the air heavy and cloying. “Aside from pain,” the doctor goes on, “there may be numbness in the arm and hand, limited to no mobility.” My stomach sinks further. “But you can see him now, if you like.” “Yes.” I look around at our friends, and they nod. “You go,” Jacob says. I follow the doctor down the hall and pause outside the room. I listen through the door. There’s the beeping of a machine. His heart rate. No other sounds. No raging or groaning. Just silence. I square my shoulders before heading inside. Timothy fills the bed with his broad frame, and it’s shocking to see him so still. He’s always full of life. Even when he’s contained, there’s a latent energy. Tonight—this morning—there’s nothing. And that terrifies me. I stop beside the bed, peering down at his pale face. They’ve taken off the mask, and there are traces of lines on his face from where it sat. A thick white bandage covers from mid-forearm to his hand. His pale fingers stick out the end. I lean over him. “Hey, handsome. How’re you feeling?” His eyes open half an inch, and his mouth moves a moment before producing a raspy sound. “Good as I look.” A breath whooshes out of me to hear him speak, as if I thought I might not again. “Jacob and Andie and Rica are here. And Zeke. Do you need something else for the pain?” Timothy shakes his head. “I can’t feel my hand. It won’t move. I can’t…” His eyes close. My gaze drags to his hand again. There’s no hint of a rusty red stain through the white gauze, but my stomach turns anyway. I can’t imagine what he’s going through. Not only physically, but the shock and hearing the doctor relay any part of what he told us. The idea of him not being able to pick up his guitar tomorrow, to do what he’s always done, washes over me in a wave of grief. I want to hug him, or kiss him, or even cry. Instead, I force myself to be strong for him. For us. “I’m glad you’re okay. You’re going to be okay,” I amend. I start to reach for his good hand, then see a spot of blood I missed on my wrist and tug Rica’s sweater down to hide it. “Am I?” He says it so quietly I almost miss it.
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