Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

Nasty looks have no effect on me.

And the woman is distraught, her child on an operating table—I feel nothing for her but pity.

So I extend the olive branch. “Hi, Stacey. I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances.”

She ignores me completely. There goes my faith in the Mediterranean diet.

Stacey shakes her head at Connor. “I can’t believe you.”

“Don’t,” he warns. “Not now.”

She looks back to the boys and forces a smile.

“I’ll be over there if either of you needs me.”

And then she walks away.

Connor turns toward me, his eyes heavy-lidded with an apology I don’t need. I reach for him, holding out my hand across the back of the boys’ chairs. He takes it, folding our fingers together and clasping it tight.

And we wait.

* * *

Time moves differently in a hospital waiting room. Slower, more torturously, each second consumed with thoughts of what will be, what might be, what life will look like when you leave this room. Connor sits like a statue, hard and still, the cup of coffee I got for him sitting untouched next to him.

Brayden’s phone starts to die so I borrow a charger from one of the nurses in the back and he moves to the floor, sitting beside the outlet. At some point, Spencer falls asleep against me, his little breaths puffing against the beige hoody I threw on when I got the call from Callie.

Just before 3 a.m., the surgeon, Makayla Davis, comes down. Connor and Stacey converge on her and I gently wake Spencer, shifting him over, moving to stand on Connor’s other side as Makayla explains Aaron’s condition.

“He got through the surgery without additional complications. He’s critical but stable.”

She goes on to describe some of Aaron’s injuries—internal bleeding, broken ribs, a punctured lung, ruptured spleen, multiple fractures to his lower right leg that will require additional surgeries to repair. But there’s good news too—no spinal cord damage, no apparent bleeding on the brain, and Aaron’s vitals are strong . . . all positive signs.

“You and Stacey can come up to the ICU.” Makayla glances at the crowd still gathered in the waiting room. “As for friends and family, we’ll see how he does in the next twenty-four hours.”

Connor nods, swallowing hard, because he knows if things are going to go bad, it’s most likely to happen in that time period. Typically, only immediate family is permitted in the ICU, but sometimes they make exceptions if they think it could aid a patient’s recovery.

He braces a hand on my arm. “You’ll take the boys home? Stay with them?”

“Of course.” I nod.

Garrett conveys the information to the students and Connor’s family. Hugs are plentiful as everyone stands and starts to disperse. Spencer darts out of his chair and throws himself into Stacey’s arms. She runs her fingers through his hair and kisses the top of his head. Connor embraces Brayden and tells him he loves him.

“Your mom and I are going to stay here with Aaron. Be good for Vi, okay?”

“We will,” Bray assures him.

And then Connor turns to me, kissing me quickly, whispering a ragged, “Thank you.”

My mouth is beside his ear, and I want to tell him that I love him. The words are right there on my lips . . . already his.

But I hold back. Because he’s all over the place right now. His mind and his heart are scattered in a million different directions. And the first time I say those words to him, I want it to be a happy memory, a good thing—not associated with so much awfulness.

So I press a kiss to his jaw and let him go.

And I guide Brayden and Spencer to my car and take them home.

* * *

Rosie’s worked up when we walk in the door—barking and spinning in circles—because dogs can sense when things are wrong. I open the back sliding door and let her out into the yard.

“Do we have to go to school tomorrow?” Spencer asks.

“No. We’re going to take it easy tomorrow . . . today. We’ll see how your brother’s doing and we might go see him and your parents at the hospital.” I look between him and Brayden. “Do you guys want to camp down here on the couch again?”

Trauma is sneaky. Sometimes you think you’ve got a handle on it, that you’re doing fine. . . and then it crashes into you, knocking the breath out of your lungs and driving you to your knees. I don’t want them to be alone right now—I want them close, in case they need me.

They nod and head upstairs to change into their pajamas.

My heart feels weighted and slow when I turn my attention to the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner Connor was making for me. A sad smile brushes my lips as I throw out the steaks that sat on the counter too long, put the unused dishes back in the cabinet and the dirty ones into the dishwasher.