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“I’m ready to take you home. They’re saying they want another day or two to monitor the swelling on your brain.

The pressure there is normal today, and they don’t expect that to change, but we’re using more caution, not less.

So go lightly on that coffee. I didn’t ask for half-caff, because I knew you’d revolt, but you need to be smart with your body and brain.

They’ll never let you go if you’re not stable.

And I don’t want them to if they’re not sure you’re good to be released. ”

He squeezes my hand in his.

“They’re trying to kill me with their soup.”

“I’ll have a word. Do you want to tell me about therapy?”

I shake my head back and forth and take another sip of coffee. “Not really.”

He clenches his jaw but nods. “But you go back tomorrow? Last question, do you like the doctor or should we find another one?”

I shrug, not wanting to reveal much.

“We’ll find you another one. This is your brain, baby.

” He leans over and kisses me below my ear, a gesture that is way too damn intimate for someone I do not know.

“We’ll find someone who can help you recover what can be recovered and who can help you walk through the process in the meantime.

In sickness and in health, Ayla. But we’ll fight for the health part, okay? ”

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Two days pass with the same boring bullshit.

Wretched sleep full of strange dreams. Breakfast. Shower. Therapy. A visit or two by my family.

No phone. No tablet. No book. No anything.

And the forbidding man with my last name stands vigil at my bedside. He listens to everything. He must leave when I’m with the shrink, because he’s showered and in new clothes by lunch every day. He never leaves my side when family comes.

The light of his computer screen reflects onto his face throughout the night and his cell phone never seems to need a charge, though it’s always lighting up and taking his attention.

And I’m over this.

Over him.

Over lying flat on my back.

Over not having my own clothes or my own shampoo.

Over being grateful for a nap because at least there’s a reprieve from utter boredom.

“I’m done. Get the doctor. I’ve got to get out of here.”

“You sure?”

Why the fuck wouldn’t I be sure? It’s not like I’m going to trip and fall off another cliff face in my living room. Seriously, how clumsy am I? I need fresh air and to see the sun.

I need to go see my friend Jessi and get a blowout and maybe some layers as this scar heals and have a normal fucking conversation that doesn’t revolve around my brain or my vitals or what I can or cannot remember.

“Positive. Spring me, please. I’m begging you. And I need my phone.”

Christian nods, setting his laptop aside. He leaves the room, and I peek at his computer trying to see anything that looks familiar.

My dad is right. I can’t trust him, and information is power.

Except the computer is too far away, and nothing is familiar anyway.

When Christian returns, he has the attending in tow. How does he do that? How does he snap his fingers and get what he wants? And how can I do that too?

“Mrs. Barone.”

“Ayla, please.”

“Ayla.” She nods. “Everything looks good. We’re very pleased with how you’re healing. We’ll begin the discharge process, but you shouldn’t expect that to be quick.”

“Please expedite it. My wife is ready to go home.” The authority in Christian’s tone brooks no argument.

The doctor acknowledges him and continues to address me.

“As I was saying, we will begin the discharge process, but I must impress upon you that if you feel off in any way, notice any changes in how you feel, or in your hearing or sight, you must return immediately. Nausea. Headaches—any headache other than what you feel right now—catalog that so you recognize it, okay?”

I agree.

“Anything other than this, you return. Do not hesitate. Do not question. The brain is fascinating, but we don’t want to risk anything when it comes to your health.

So I’ll begin the process, but I must have your agreement that you will be honest in your assessment and be a willing partner in your wellbeing. ”

“I will be.”

“Okay. Your surgeon and I both feel that therapy with a specialist in memory trauma should be a part of your protocol. Your husband has indicated that you’ve found another doctor to monitor this care and you have twice a week appointments set for the next several weeks.”

My head whips to Christian, and I instantly wish I’d been slower in my movements. He’s found a doctor… One I have not met and do not know and has already scheduled bi-weekly sessions. Who does he think he is?

I don’t give anything away to the doctor, but I might as well be being released from one prison into another. This is my body and my brain, and he’s making decisions about that without even discussing with me?

“Right,” I say, trying to keep the bite out of my words.

“Great. Let me see how quickly we can get you out of here.” As if I can’t comprehend the words or have no agency in my own life, she addresses Christian.

“Lower sodium diet would be best.” I snicker since they’ve fed me crap the whole time I was here.

“As many fresh veggies and fruits as you can. Lean proteins. Fish twice a week. Limit sugar and caffeine for a while. And walking would be great.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

I’m right fucking here, and they’re discussing my care without me.