Lost In Us (Lost 1)

I gasp. He's got a black eye, and his lower lip is split. I'm suddenly not sure anymore that I want to see Jess right now.

"What happened to Jess?" I ask.

Parker looks from James to me, then says quietly. "She fell through a glass wall behind the bar. There was a ladder on the other side."

I cover my mouth with both hands. James puts a comforting arm around me.

"How is she now?" he asks.

"No idea," Parker says, obviously frustrated. "They won't tell you anything if you're not part of the family. The doctor talked to her mother, but she doesn't seem capable of talking."

"Jess's mother is here?"

"I found her number in Jess's phone and called her," Dani explains.

"I think you should talk to her," Parker says.

Dani looks at me wide-eyed, balancing from one foot to the other. I nod. She leads me through the labyrinth of corridors until we reach a waiting room. There are only two people in it. An elderly woman, reading what looks like the Bible.

And one of the dearest people to me, Jess's mother. She's curled into a seat, her thin frame looking more fragile than ever. She's staring into space, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers.

"Mrs. Haydn?" I call, sitting next to her.

"My poor girl," she says almost inaudibly.

I take her free hand between my palms and rub it energetically because it's ice cold.

"What did the doctor tell you?"

"Two broken ribs, a collapsed lung and her left leg is fractured. I saw her before they took her for some more tests, I never—"

"Where is Mr. Haydn?" I interrupt, because her voice trembles to the point of breaking.

"His boss couldn't find someone to replace his Sunday shift so he didn't allow him to take the day off." She breaks into tears.

I stare at her, searching for the right words, any words really, that might comfort her. But the truth is I've never really been able to comfort anyone. My words have a habit of transforming completely on their way out of my mouth, losing all their meaning, so I put my arm around her shoulders in a tender embrace, hoping the gesture conveys everything I don't say.

James's voice makes me leap to my feet. He's walking toward us, accompanied by a doctor—a tall, balding man in a white coat, carrying a thin file under his arm. Dani trails in silence behind them. Mrs. Haydn stands up too beside me and I turn to her, forcing myself to come up with something, now at the last moment, but the sight of her contorted eyes and trembling lips blocks the words in my throat.

"You can see your daughter now, Mrs. Haydn," the doctor says.

"How is she?" I ask him as James comes by my side, gently squeezing my hand in a silent encouragement.

"She will make a full recovery. But it will take some time," he answers in an official, not unkind tone.

I turn to Ms. Haydn, expecting to find her as relieved as I feel but her expression hasn't relaxed one bit.

"Mrs. Haydn, do you want to go see Jess?" I ask.

She looks at me terrified, as if I'd asked her to walk on burning coal. "You go first, my dear. I'll go right after you."

"Okay," I stutter, looking questioningly at the doctor. He gestures for me to follow him and after a brief hesitation, I do.

"Please take care of her," I whisper to James over my shoulder.

We don't walk for long before the doctor stops, in front of a door. "She is still asleep now. Please remember, it looks worse than it really is."

On that cheery note, he takes off. I stare after him for a few seconds, wondering if going in alone is wise then take a deep breath and push the door open. One glance at the bed and I understand Mrs. Haydn's horror at the thought of seeing Jess. Any part of her body that isn't covered in white bandages is bruised. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, until I get to the head of her bed. There is a long, slim bandage on her cheek, and I dearly pray it won't leave a scar behind. How could this happen to her? I should have never agreed to go to that godforsaken tap house. I should have never left her alone there with that bunch of idiots. I caress her non-bandaged cheek, reminding myself that the doctor said it looks worse than it really is.