“Please hurry,” I implore. I have to be by Hunter’s side. I dread the thought of him alone.
Sandra hurries off and I glance around the ward. It’s mostly elderly. Some are asleep, others have visitors. Their hushed tones sound unnatural and too much like a funeral home. The staff move briskly and efficiently and coldness seeps into my bones. Does Hunter have someone kind at his side? What if he wakes with no one there?
I blow out a long breath when Sandra approaches with a woman in a purple blouse and black trousers. Sandra hands me some water and painkillers as the woman pushes her glasses back up her nose and eyes me. “Jess, I’m Dr. Morgan. How are you feeling?” She draws up a chair and sits opposite me.
Painkillers in hand, I eye them warily. My head is agonizing and if I want to see Hunter, I need a clear head but I fear these small little white capsules. What if they lead me down a route I can’t go down again? Taking a breath, I throw them back and take a sip of water. For Hunter, I can do anything. I won’t let them control me again.
The doctor runs through what feels like endless questions. I battle the desire to push past her and find Hunter myself but I’ve no idea where he is or if I’ve even got enough strength to go to him. She checks my eyes and looks over the clipboard at the end of the bed then offers me a smile.
“You may have a mild concussion. You’ll feel out of sorts for a few days but I see no reason why you can’t return home tomorrow. We’ll keep you under observation today. You won’t be able to drive home, however. You’ll need to get a lift or take a taxi.”
I nod, barely taking in her words. “Can I see Hunter?”
“The man she came in with,” Sandra adds.
Dr. Morgan nods. “Yes, but be sure to get some rest today. You’ve been through quite an accident. You were very lucky. Believe me” —the woman eyes me from over her black frames— “I’ve seen much worse injuries from bike accidents.”
I nod again, but I don’t feel lucky. All I can think about is Hunter’s lifeless body sprawled across the ground.
Sandra motions to the man with a wheelchair waiting at the end of the ward. “This is Mark, he’ll take you down to see Mr O’Reilly. He’s under orders to collect you in two hours, okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
They help me into the wheelchair. Anxiety courses through me and I clench the arms of the chair. Cold air swishes around my bare legs so I pull the gown tightly around me. In the sea of well-dressed doctors, nurses and visitors, my sense of vulnerability amplifies. Mark wheels me to the elevator and we wait. Even through the buzz of low conversation and tapping heels, my heart pounds in my ears. I long to jump up and go to Hunter myself. The elevator is taking too long. Why is it taking so fucking long? The thud of my head and the weakness in my limbs prevents me from doing anything but wait.
Finally the doors slide open and we enter, followed by several other people. The lift is wide—to fit the beds I assume—but I still feel claustrophobic. I’m out of my depth here. I’ve spent so long living in a bubble of work, home, work, that anything else sets panic alight in my stomach. I clench my arms tightly around myself and focus on seeing Hunter again. Maybe I’ll even get the chance to tell him how I feel—to tell him I love him.
There’s no denying it. I can’t cope without him. Somehow, in spite of everything we’ve done to each other, I need him. While he accepted my lies, I failed to do the same for him. I have to make it up to him. If I get the chance, I’ll show him I get it. God knows, I can hardly take the moral high ground. I know better than anyone what people do if they’re desperate.
The ping from the elevator jolts me back to reality. Mark takes me down a maze of corridors with quiet efficiency and expert skills. I spot the sign for CT department and my heart bounds. I hope to God Hunter is okay. Everything that has happened is because of me. How will I live with myself if there’s permanent damage?
“Wait here a moment.” Mark manoeuvres me against a wall. “I’ll just find out where he is.”
“Thanks,” I croak, my throat tight with nerves.
Mark strolls over to the nurses’ workstation at the end of the corridor and I twine my hands in the robe. It’s funny how everything I’ve been fighting for—anonymity, freedom from judgment, a life of my own—means nothing now. I’d put up with abuse, bullying, anything just to be with Hunter right now.
The door to the CT room swing open and a porter pulls out a bed. I jump up, by some miracle stay on my feet and hurry over. “Wait!
The man pauses and frowns as I come to Hunter’s bedside.
“He’s my”—I fumble for an explanation—“my boyfriend.”