Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 104802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I mumble once I’m back in the bed, wanting him to know I understand what he did and I appreciate it. We don’t see eye to eye on…well, anything, but I need to give credit where credit is due.
“I’m missing class today.” I close my eyes, trying to ignore the pain, both mentally and physically.
“You’ll be back soon.”
A nurse comes in, this one a beautiful Black woman with twists. “How are you doing?” She smiles.
“Good,” I reply.
“What do we need to do to get him home today?” Cillian asks, surprising me.
“The doctor needs to see him. I can’t promise they’ll discharge him today.”
Each of her words twists my stomach into another knot. I open my mouth to let her know I’m not staying here another night—I can’t be in this place any longer than I have to—but Cillian speaks first. “He’s going home today. Unless it’s life or death, he needs to go home.”
I whip my head in his direction—and wish I didn’t because it hurts. Why is he advocating so hard for me to go home? Last night it was the opposite.
As if feeling my eyes shooting questions at him, Cillian glances my way and gives me a smirk. “I keep my word, Kitten.”
I really, really wish warmth didn’t skate up my skin over that stupid nickname.
“I’ll see what I can do,” the nurse replies, but her tone says she’s not happy about it. I understand. She’s only doing her job and wants what’s best for me, but these four walls are feeling like they’re closing in on me. I hate hospitals. Even if I didn’t, the longer I’m here, the more it’ll cost, and I’m already freaking out about that.
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” Cillian tells her.
She finishes her morning check-in, taking my vitals and asking questions.
The hospitalist comes in right after, giving me a brief exam. Cillian asks questions, which surprises me, about what the doctor is doing and how he feels I’m doing. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to stop, that it’s not his business and I don’t need anyone to speak for me, but words never leave my mouth. My behavior around him and the way I respond to him are a mystery.
“Do you live alone?” Dr. Hill asks.
“He’s staying with me,” Cillian interrupts.
“I can speak for myself.” I’m absolutely one hundred percent not staying with him, but I’m also smart enough to know that I shouldn’t say that in front of the physician. They’ll want to make sure someone is there if I need them.
“This is what we’ll do,” Dr. Hill says. “I’d like the neurologist and pulmonologist to see you this morning. We’ll run another scan of your head and chest, and as long as those are clear, we’ll discharge you into Mr. O’Shea’s care. We need to make sure your lungs don’t fill with fluid. That’s always a worry with rib injuries.”
Worry swims in my already aching head. I don’t want to get sick. I don’t want to be hurt. I just…I wish this never happened. Not the stepping-in part—I don’t have it in me not to do that—but that those guys hadn’t tried to hurt anyone at all.
Those guys, who are like Cillian.
Cillian, who is also here, missing school to be with me.
Cillian, who slept slumped over in a chair, holding my hand.
Cillian, who does kind things too.
“That sounds good,” I tell the doctor.
Once Cillian and I are alone again, I whisper a soft “Thank you.”
“What for?” The frown curling his lips tells me it’s an honest question. Does no one ever thank him?
“For this. Being here. Sleeping here. Telling them I’m staying with you. Everything.”
“You are staying with me, and you’re welcome.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Try again, Kitten. Either you’re staying at the house with us, or I’ll be in that dorm room with you. I’m not leaving you alone, not only because of your health, but because I don’t know if those guys will be looking for you.”
Oh…oh. How could I have forgotten that detail? I’d like to shove it back into whatever box it was in so I can pretend it’s not true.
“I’m thirsty,” I say instead of responding.
Cillian gets up and walks over to a table behind me. There’s a pitcher and a cup on it. He pours water into the paper cup, grabs a straw, and stops beside my bed. “Here.”
I watch as he moves the drink closer, holding it for me.
Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it.
I’ve been independent all my life. While I always had my parents, and then just my dad, I’ve also always been able to fend for myself. We had so much to worry about with Mom, I didn’t want Dad to have to take care of me on top of that.
There’s no reason I can’t drink from this cup on my own. No reason I should be letting Cillian O’Shea help me, but I lean in, mouth on the straw, and take a couple of long, deep pulls. It immediately quenches my too-dry tongue, and I take more.