Pretty banged up…
Internal bleeding…
Grade four splenic laceration…
Tied off…
Cauterized…
Likely from the seatbelt…
Going to be okay…
More tests…
On and on he drones, and I try to keep up through the fog of the drugs and the pain after being cut open, and in a major car accident, to boot. When he leaves, I drink as much of the protein shake as I can stand, and then I’m asleep again.
It goes on like this, until finally, I wake with a little more mobility, a little less fog in my head. I’m able to drink a little more of a protein shake, though my stomach is upset, and I can’t ever imagine eating solid food again in my life. The pain is enough to remind me of childbirth, even with whatever is pumping through the IV to alleviate it.
I talk to a few of the nurses, gathering more information about what happened. Apparently, I was part of a twenty-nine-car pile-up on I-4, one caused by that fog I was admiring so much.
My stomach drops as I realize I’m likely on the lucky side of those brought in, that there’s no way everyone survived something so catastrophic.
I’m half-watching The Price Is Right and half debating a nap when there’s a soft knock on the doorframe of my room.
“Hey, she’s awake,” Greg muses, the corner of his lips curling up as he makes his way inside the room.
My eyes shoot open wide, tongue as dry as sandpaper as my heart picks up its pace from a slow crawl to a steady jog.
I thought I dreamt it…
But here he is, Gregory Weston, the boy I once knew as my son’s best friend, now a man I don’t know at all.
No, not just a man.
A doctor.
My eyes travel the length of him, taking in the pistachio green scrubs that I’m certain should not be this attractive on anyone. His biceps bulge like mountains, pecs swelling against the fabric, and the pants hang on his hips in a most delicious way.
I should be ashamed. I should feel that same pang of guilt and warning that I did when I was younger and he was, too. But back then, the line was much more severe. I was married. He was my son’s friend. I was thirty-one and he was only eighteen — regardless of the fact that he acted much older than that.
But now, he’s a stranger.
A very hot, younger-than-me-but-not-the-creepy-kind-of-young stranger.
And I feel absolutely no shame ogling him.
I take my time bringing my gaze back up to meet his, finding a curious smirk on his face, his coffee-brown eyes sparkling with amusement. He still has the boyish features I remember, the goofy smile and thick head of hair. Only now, his chin is dusted with stubble, the edges of his jaw sharper, more defined.
“I thought you were a dream,” I admit softly.
Greg’s brow arches into his hairline, and he nods, pulling up one of the rolling stools and taking a seat on it next to my bed. “Heavy drugs will do that to you. Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”
“Foggy,” I admit. “Sore. Achy. But not as bad as I should, I imagine, all things considered.”
“Just means I’m doing my job right,” he says. “Although, I can’t promise you that will last once you leave here. Dr. Simmons and I will work together to prescribe you medication to take home with you, but it won’t be as strong as what’s flowing through our IV right now.”
I just shake my head, eyelids a bit heavy as I relax into the pillows, propping my head up. “Look at you,” I muse. “Doctor Weston.”
He almost blushes, grabbing the back of his neck with a shrug.
“Don’t downplay that, Greg. It’s impressive. How long?”
“I’ve been here for two years now. Before that, I was a resident in Chicago.”
“And before that, seventy-two years of school.”
“Exactly. Don’t I look good for my age?”
He puffs his chest with the joke, spreading his arms out wide and looking off into the distance with a look akin to Dwayne Johnson’s smolder on his face.
You look good for any age is the first thought that comes to me, but I just smile instead of answering.
“So, did you get the rundown of everything already?”
I sigh, looking down at all the wires and tubes hooked up to me. “Dr. Simmons told me everything, yes, but again… it’s foggy. Something about a lacerated spleen?” I touch my head. “And I guess I banged my head pretty good.”
“You did, indeed. Had a nasty cut that took a dozen stitches to fix up. But the internal bleeding was our biggest concern.” His face is grim, lips pressing together for a moment. “I’m glad it wasn’t something worse.”
“That makes two of us,” I say, wincing a bit as I adjust myself in the bed. “Although, I have a feeling the worst pain of all will come when I get the bill from all this.”