Crashed (Driven, #3)(19)

I reach out to pull myself off the bed and Colton’s hand that’s lying on the mattress clasps around my wrist. He shakes his head and winces with the movement. I immediately reach out to him and cradle his face with one hand, his skin paling and beads of sweat appearing on the bridge of his nose.

“Don’t move, okay?” My voice breaks when I say it, as my eyes travel the lines of his face searching to see if he’s hurt anything. As if I would know if he had.

He nods just barely and whispers in an almost absent voice, “Hurts.”

“I know it does,” I tell him as I reach across the bed and push the call button for the nurse as the hope deep within me settles into possibility. “Let me get a nurse to help with the pain, okay?”

“Ry …” His voice breaks again as the fear in it splinters in my heart. I do the only thing I know might reassure him. I lean forward and brush my lips to his cheek and just hold them there momentarily while I control the rush of emotions that hit me like a tsunami. Tears drip down my cheeks and onto his as the silent sobs surge through me. I hear a soft sigh and when I pull back, his eyes are closed and his mind lost to the blackness behind them once again.

“Is everything okay?” The nurse pulls me from my moment.

I look over at her, Colton’s face still cradled in my hand and my tears staining his lips. “He woke up …” I can’t say anything else because relief robs my words. “He woke up.”



Colton comes in and out of consciousness a couple more times over the next few days. Small moments of lucidity among a haze of confusion. Each time he tries to talk without success, and each time we try to soothe—what we assume from his racing heartbeat—are his fears, in the few minutes we have with him.

I refuse to leave, so fearful that I’ll miss any of these precious moments. Stolen minutes where I can pretend nothing has happened instead of the endless span of worry.

Dorothea has finally convinced me to take a few moments and head to the cafeteria. As much as I don’t want to, I know I’m hogging her son and she probably wants a minute alone with him.

I pick at my food, my appetite nonexistent, and my jeans baggier than when I first arrived in Florida a week ago. Nothing sounds good—not even chocolate, my go to food for stress.

My cell rings and I scramble to get it, hoping it’s Dorothea telling me Colton’s awake again, but it isn’t. My excitement abates. “Hey, Had.”

“Hi, sweetie. Any change?”

“No.” I just sigh, wishing I had more to say. She’s used to this by now and allows the silence between us.

“If he doesn’t wake anytime soon, I’m ignoring you and flying my ass out there to be with you.” Here comes Haddie and her no-nonsense attitude. There’s no need for her to be here really. She’d just sit around and wait like the rest of us, and what good is that going to do?

“Just your ass?” I let the smile grace my lips even though it feels so foreign in this dismal place.

“Well, it is a fine one if I may say so myself … like bounce quarters off of it and shit.” She laughs. “And thank God! There’s a bit of the girl I love shining through. You hanging in there?”

“It’s all I can do,” I sigh.

“So how is he? Has he come to again?”

“Yeah, last night.”

“So that’s what, five times in two days according to Becks? That’s a good sign, right? From nothing to something?”

“I guess … I don’t know. He just seems so scared when he wakes up—his heart rate on the monitors sky rockets and he can’t catch his breath—and it’s so quick that we don’t have time to explain that it’s okay, that he’s going to be okay.”

“But he sees you all there, Ry. The fact you’re all there has to tell him he has nothing to fear.” I just give a non-committal murmur in response, hoping her words are true. Hoping that the sight of all of us soothes him rather than scares him into thinking he’s on his deathbed. “What does Dr. Irons say?”

I breathe in deeply, afraid if I say it my fears might come true. “He says Colton seems stable. That the more often he wakes up the better … but until he starts talking in full sentences, he won’t know if any part of his brain is affected by everything.”

“Okay,” she says, drawing the word out so that it’s almost a question. Asking me what I fear without asking. “What are you not telling me, Ry?”

I push the food around on my plate some, scattered thoughts focusing for bouts of time. I work a swallow in my throat before drawing in a shaky breath. “He says sometimes motor skills might be temporarily affected …”

“And …” Silence hangs as she waits for me to continue. “Put your fork down and talk to me. Tell me what you’re really worried about. No bullshit. You’re not a lesbian so stop beating around the damn bush.”

Her attempt to make me laugh results in a soft chuckle turned audible exhale of breath. “He said that he might not remember much. Sometimes in cases like these, the patient may have temporary to permanent memory loss.”

“And you’re afraid he might not remember what happened, good and bad, right?” I don’t respond, feeling stupid and validated in my fears at the same time. She takes my lack of a reply as my answer. “Well, he obviously remembers you because he didn’t freak out when you were lying in bed with him the first time, right? He grabbed your hand, stroked your hair? That has to tell you he knows who you are.”