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It’s no use.
The sooner I get her to a hospital, the faster she’ll have her brain back.
I’ll tell her a second time, and she’ll believe me. It’ll be easier after I’ve done it once. I test the words again.
“I love you.”
Those three words are so fucking heavy they almost break me.
I’ve said them to Mom, of course, but that’s an old habit. A kiss on her cheek, a quick ‘love you’ at her house before I grab Colt and go.
Back when Rina and I were together, I said it to her, too.
Not often, admittedly.
More at the beginning, when we tried to convince ourselves it was true and our cursed relationship could work. Back when we were naïve.
Then it faded and stopped.
I don’t know if I was the first one to give up on that magic phrase or if it was her.
Regardless, the love ended before our marriage. I haven’t said it to another woman since.
Over ten damn years without conjuring those words, and here I am, sputtering my love to a girl who’s barely conscious.
If my heart wasn’t pounding through my chest with real fear thudding through my veins, I’d find it funny.
“Hang tight, just a little while longer. I love you,” I tell her again.
She’s practically asleep now. The crying probably exhausted her, but the ghost of a smile touches her lips as she whispers, “I love you, too.”
It takes toolong for her to wake up.
Too many hours where I’m stuck by her side in the hospital room—like hell I was settling for the waiting room and her family didn’t fight me—watching IVs stuck in the back of her hand as she lies under a thin blue sheet.
I only break the silence to text her friend, Lyssie, letting her know the nightmare is over.
The whisper of her breath is the only sound in this room.
I count her breaths, too, because they’re my only assurance she’s still alive.
The nurse said she was horribly dehydrated. She’d gotten a nasty stomach bug from some water she drank. They gave her meds and now they’re replacing her nutrients or something.
I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.
All I know is I’m not moving until she wakes up.
My own exhaustion kicks in and I nod off a few times into the morning. Grey light filters through the blinds when I lift my head from the corner of her bed.
She’s awake, watching me with a tired smile.
Relief floods my system.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty. How you feeling?” I pull up my chair and take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey, yourself. How long have you been there?”
“A few hours.”