“Yes, sweetie. You were in an accident.”
When? How long have I been here?
What’s happening?
I start to sit up, but my body screams at me in protest.
“The doctor will be in now that you’re awake,” she says. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Water,” I say, the words burning my throat.
She nods and starts to leave.
“Um, hey,” I say, wincing at the pain in my side.
She stops by the door.
Tears wet my eyes as I remember what I was doing. Curt’s house.
Suddenly, the room feels really fucking big.
I’m afraid to ask the question on the tip of my tongue. I’m afraid to hear the answer. But the emptiness in my chest cries out longer and harder than the fear of being unwanted.
“Is there anyone here for me?” I ask.
Her face falls.
Tears fall down mine.
“The doctor will be right in,” she whispers and shuts the door softly behind her.
My chest shakes as I cry. It’s a pathetic attempt at crying because I don’t even have the energy to do it right.
I lick my lips and discover that they, too, are swollen. I wonder if anything is broken besides my spirit.
Damn Curt Bowery. Damn you and your piece-of-shit son.
I look around the room for my phone. I need to call Wade. There’s a chance no one has called him because I know he’d be here if he knew something happened.
The thought makes me smile.
He’ll come for me. I know it.
The idea of seeing his face and feeling his touch slows my tears. It’s the only balm to my wounds.
I just wonder how many I have.
A soft knock raps against the door. A balding man in a white coat comes into the room.
“Well, hello, sleeping beauty,” he says softly. “I’m Dr. Kidmore. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck. Funnily enough, I’m not sure what hit me.”
He sets a notebook down on a stand. “I think your instincts are probably right on that.”
I try to smile.
He takes a quick glance at the machine overhead and then rolls a stool up beside the bed. “I’m going to do a few checks, okay?”
I nod, barely.
He shines his light in my eyes, which makes me squint. Ouch. His fingers are soft, though, as they press against what must be a patchwork of bruises given how much they hurt.
“You’re doing great, Dara. Are there specific areas of discomfort for you? There is a lot of bruising and swelling.”
I try to shrug but wince instead. “Well, my face hurts. My arm. It hurts to breathe too deep.”
“That makes sense. You have a small fracture in your left hand that will heal on its own. And a nicely cracked rib. You’re going to be pretty sore.”
I wince while trying to take a deep breath. “I believe that.”
He smiles.
“The other driver—are they okay?” I ask.
“He’s alive. I can’t say much else.”
I nod, my heart sinking. “I understand.”
Hearing that is a relief that I didn’t know I needed. I rest my head against the pillows and sigh.
“Do you have any questions for me?” he asks.
“When can I go home?”
He grins. “We have a few more tests to run, so we’ll see how that goes. Hopefully tomorrow if everything looks the way I expect it to.”
“I’d like to find my phone. Do you know where it is?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t. I can check with the records that came in with you, but I’m guessing if anyone has it, it’s the police. But don’t worry,” he says upon seeing my distress. “They’ll find all of your belongings and return them to you.”
How can I call Wade?
“I need to call … a friend,” I say, tears forming in my eyes again.
“Absolutely. There’s a phone over there.” He points at the table on the other side of me. “If you need help finding a number, one of the nurses will help you.” He pats my hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you all fixed up and out of here as good as new.”
I try to grin at his kindness. But between my tears and swollen face, who knows what it looks like.
Dr. Kidmore’s face sobers. “I have one more thing that I’d like to ask you, Miss Alden.”
“Okay.”
“You do know that you’re pregnant. Right?”
There are no bright lights this time. No smell of burnt rubber. There isn’t a chunk of metal that keeps me from seeing a few feet away from my face.
But none of that means that I don’t feel hit by a truck again.
“Excuse me?” I ask, my eyes going wide.
I gulp. I didn’t hear him right. I probably have a concussion.
“Am I concussed?” I ask.
“No. You do not have a concussion. But you are expecting a baby.”
A baby?
I squeeze my eyes shut and grab my head—only to pull my hand away because the pain from touching it is somehow even worse.
I can’t be pregnant. How can I be pregnant?
Well, I know how but how?
Wade.
Oh, fuck.
The monitor hanging above me starts beeping. A shot of fear mixed with adrenaline fires through my veins.
A cold sweat dots my skin as I think I might vomit.
“I take it that this information is new to you,” he says softly.
I laugh. The sound is hollow and breaks on a sob. “Oh, a little bit.”
“We’re going to run an ultrasound shortly, and we can help you schedule an appointment with your OB,” he says. “I don’t expect that you’ll see any complications from the accident, but that’s also not my specialty.”
Holy shit. This is real.
“It’s not mine either,” I say.
He goes to the sink and washes his hands. “Do you have any more questions for me?”
“Can you hand me a puke bucket before you leave?”
“Yes. Of course.” He grabs a little pale pink tub and passes it to me. “I’ll have the nurse come check on you shortly. Okay?”
I nod.
I don’t need a nurse. I need Wade.
Tears stream down my cheeks unchecked.
The tub shakes in my hand, and I wonder what part of this entire debacle is causing it. The shock of the accident? The pain? The medicines?
The baby?
The baby.
Oh. Shit.
I watch the doctor slowly rise and gather his notebook.
How is he so calm?
Because he’s not having a baby.
I vaguely register that the door closes.
My eyes close, and I say a prayer. For strength. For peace. And for Wade.
If I can just see Wade, I know this will all be okay.
I know it.
THIRTY-NINE
WADE
“Dara Alden.” I plant my hands on the nurses’ station and catch my breath. “Where is she? What room?”
“Sir, I need you to—”
“I need you to tell me where she is. Now.”
The nurse flinches at my aggressive behavior, but she doesn’t look any closer to relenting.
My heart pounds so hard that I think I might pass out.
“Please. Where the hell is she?”
A man in a white coat stops at the nurses’ station. He sees me and quirks a brow.
“Dara Alden,” I say, nearly begging. “Do you know where she is?”
The doctor gives the nurse a small nod and then turns to me.
“You are here to see Miss Alden?” he asks.
“Yes.” I move around the corner. “Please. Where is she? She doesn’t have her phone. The police told me to come here, and I … I don’t know where to go. She’s alone …”
The doctor smiles. “She’s in Room 304.”