Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(68)

“Okay let’s go. OR 3 is ready for us.”

They move as a group in rapid synchronized steps down the hall, some pushing the bed, others carrying equipment and saline bags. I jog behind them, keeping eye contact with Aaron for as long as I can. His eyes slide closed and stay that way as they wheel him into the elevator.

And I stand in the hallway watching the doors shut. Because there’s no room for me and the OR is sterile, I can’t go in with him.

My arms are numb at my sides and I’m just . . . useless. Blank.

Lost.

I don’t know where to go or what to do. I never not know what to do. It’s like I can’t form a thought in my head. My knees go weak so I lean against the wall, bending over and gulping for air in tight, strangled gasps.

Above the rushing in my ears, I hear my name called from down the hall.

“Connor!”

I turn around and Violet slams into me. Her arms wrapping around me, holding me up—solid and strong and here. And I needed her here so fucking much.

“Violet . . . Jesus, Violet.”

I clasp at her like a drowning man, burying my face in her neck, breathing in her warmth and vitality.

“There was an accident,” I tell her in a voice that’s not even mine.

“I know. Callie called me.”

“He’s . . . hurt, Vi.”

Her arms squeeze me tighter.

“He’s hurt really bad.”

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

We stay wrapped around each other for a few moments, until my heartbeat slows. I straighten up and rub at my wet eyes and try to pull my shit together.

“I don’t know what to do.” I press my hands against my skull, squeezing. “Fuck! What do I need to do?”

Violet’s brown eyes are steady and clear—grounding me, guiding me, like a light in a pitch-black storm.

“You have to call his mother. You have to let Stacey know what’s happening.”

Right. Call Stacey. I can do that.

Having a direction, a task I can complete, helps. Helps to get my brain working again, helps to bring me back to me.

“Okay.” I nod, reaching for my phone. “Okay.”


*

Violet



I’m in full-on triage mode, my emotions on lockdown, moving on auto-pilot. My only focus is Connor and the boys—that they have what they need, that they’re getting through this, that I’m here for them.

My own feelings about Aaron? The idea that’s he’s hurt, that we could lose him? No—I’ll think about that later—when I can cry and fall apart.

Now is not that time.

We wait in the main waiting room outside the ED, because it’s big with lots of chairs and accessible to everyone. Garrett stays, Connor’s ex-mother-in-law Joyce arrives, Ryan and Angela bring the boys and wait with us too. Connor sits Brayden and Spencer in the two chairs between us, so we bookend them.

Connor’s parents arrive next. Mr. Daniels, whose style is old-school and gruff, walks straight to his firstborn and pulls him into his arms for a hug.

“It’s going to be all right, son.” He pats Connor’s back. “Don’t you worry.”

My armor cracks just a bit at his words, my throat clogging, but I manage to keep it together.

A few minutes later, Timmy walks through the doors still in his firefighter gear. His eyes are red rimmed as he sits beside Connor and quietly tells him what it was like at the scene. How they pulled up to the accident and Tim immediately recognized Aaron’s white Honda Civic, but he didn’t believe it . . . not until he saw his nephew pinned inside.

He tells Connor that Aaron was scared but he didn’t feel any pain and that he begged his uncle to get him out. And Tim promised him he would, talked him through it, kept him calm, until they were able to extract him from the car.

Connor’s expression is controlled and stoic. It’s a mask he wears well . . . the same one he uses for patients so they’re not burdened by what he’s thinking or feeling.

“You did good, Tim.” Connor puts his hand on his little brother’s shoulder. “I’m so grateful that you were there for him.”

Timmy sniffs and blows out a big breath, the way guys do when they’re trying not to cry.

“Yeah. I’m gonna . . . get some air.”

He walks outside, and a moment later Garrett follows him, to make sure he’s okay. Because even though they argue and mock each other . . . they’re brothers.

As news of the accident gets around Lakeside, the waiting room fills up with more and more teenagers—Aaron’s friends and members of the football team. They’re somber, respectful, talking quietly amongst themselves or looking at their phones. Aaron’s pretty girlfriend comes in wearing his varsity jacket, because kids still give those to each other when they’re dating. She approaches Connor, her face awash with devastation, two of her friends flanking her for moral support.

“Hi, Dr. Daniels.”

Connor gives her a gentle smile.

“Hi, Mia.”

“Do you know how he’s doing?”

“I talked to him when he came in; he was conscious, which is good. He’s in surgery now and we’ll know more when he gets out.”

She points to an empty chair in the corner.