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As I moved to retrieve my sweater, I couldn't shake the feeling that my world was spinning out of control. The revelation about Lara and the baby, combined with my conflicted feelings for Ty and Oliver, left me feeling more lost than ever. I wondered, not for the first time, how I had ended up in this mess and if I would ever find my way out.
I sat by Oliver's bedside, the rhythmic hiss of the respirator filling the sterile air. My eyes traced the steady rise and fall of his chest, a mechanical breath that had become achingly familiar over the past two months. The nurses had just finished their rounds, their hushed voices and the clatter of keyboards drifting from the front desk.
Seizing the moment of relative privacy, I leaned in close, my voice barely above a whisper. "I hate you for what you've done," I hissed, the words bitter on my tongue. "You hid so much from me and for what? So we could almost lose our lives?"
Tears stung my eyes, hot and unwelcome. I angrily swiped at them, determined not to let my mascara betray my weakness. As I blinked away the moisture, I noticed Oliver's fingers twitch. I held my breath, dismissing it as another false alarm – it had happened before, cruelly raising my hopes only to dash them again.
But then his fingers moved again, this time a deliberate bend that sent my heart racing. My gaze snapped to his face just as his eyelids fluttered open. Our eyes met, and a single tear slid down his cheek, leaving a glistening trail on his pale skin.
I leapt to my feet, adrenaline surging through me as I rushed to the nurse's station. Grabbing the nearest nurse by the sleeve, I practically dragged her back to Oliver's bedside. "He's awake," I stammered, my voice trembling with a mixture of shock and relief.
The nurse's expression shifted to professional urgency. "I need to call the attending," she said, her tone calm but making no room for argument. "Can you sit in the waiting room while we assess Mr. Fox?"
I hesitated, reluctant to leave now that Oliver had finally opened his eyes. "Yes, but why can't I stay here?"
"We need room to work," she explained gently but firmly.
My eyes flicked back to Oliver's. He watched me intently as I left the room, unable to speak around the tubes in his throat. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy between us as I retreated to the waiting room.
The stark white walls and burnt orange chairs of the ICU waiting area felt oppressive as I sank into a seat. I made my way to the small coffee station in the corner, my movements automatic as I prepared a cup. The bitter liquid scalded my tongue, but I barely noticed, lost in thought.
Had Oliver heard what I said? That I hated him? If he had, his expression gave nothing away. It had been over two months since he collapsed in my arms, blood leaking from him. What would he say when he could finally speak? Would he offer explanations, or more lies?
Time crawled by, each tick of the clock echoing in the quiet room. After what felt like an eternity, the nurse reappeared, gesturing for me to follow her back inside. Dr. Shu, the attending physician – a tall, imposing man with thick black hair and penetrating dark eyes – pulled me aside, his expression grave.
As he began to explain Oliver's condition, I steeled myself for whatever news was to come.
“He’s alert and our preliminary check indicates his brain function is normal. We’ll need to do further testing but for now, he should rest. We haven’t removed the respirator. I prefer to leave it in at least another day while we assess his respiratory function.”
“Can I talk to him?”
“Yes, but now that he’s awake, you can only stay for fifteen minutes at a time.”
“Thank you, Dr. Shu.”
I walked to Oliver’s room. He was sitting up in bed and his tired eyes brightened when he saw me.
“You finally woke up.”
He wrote with his finger in the air, and I shook my head. I didn’t have any idea what he meant. I pulled my phone out from my pocket and scrolled to my electronic notepad, handing him the stylus. His hand was shaky, but he managed to write out How long on the screen.
I met his eyes. “Have you been out?”
He nodded. “Two months.”
Oliver’s eyes opened wide, and he just stared at me then looked down at the screen and began to write. I looked at his words. “FA Corp.”
“I’m running the business.”
He smiled and I thought about how I would tell him that he wasn’t getting back control of his company, and I was leaving him. His eyes fluttered and shut. The stylus slipped from his hand which I caught as it slid down the sheet. I took the phone from his other hand and tucked the stylus in the bottom then shoved it back in my pocket.
I sank into the plush couch in my living room, the phone feeling heavy in my hand as I dialed my mother's number. The events of the day swirled in my mind, a chaotic mix of relief and dread.
"Oliver's awake," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, laden with unspoken emotions.
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line before my mother's concerned voice came through. "When?" she asked, urgency coloring her tone.
I closed my eyes, remembering the moment Oliver's gaze met mine. "This afternoon. I was there visiting."
