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I text his stepmom, dad, and anyone else who might need to know, but my fingers are shaking so badly that I keep hitting the wrong keys, and my messages come out looking like gibberish.
I'll never forget the look on Jacob's face as he lay on the ice, the pain etched deep in his eyes, the way he crumpled like a rag doll.
I try to push the thoughts away, but they cling like a stubborn stain.
I picture him having to endure surgeries, therapies, and endless days of pain, and the thought is like a punch to my gut.
A thousand 'what ifs' bombard my thoughts.
What if Jim had hit him just a little harder? What if he'd struck his head straight on? I might be racing to the hospital for a whole different reason. I might be...oh God, I can't even go there.
Tears spill over, and I swipe at my cheeks, desperate to regain some composure before I walk through those hospital doors.
The cab screeches to a halt, and I throw a handful of bills at the driver, not caring if it's too much or not enough. I'm out the door in a flash, racing into the ER like every second could change everything.
My feet barely touch the ground as I sprint toward the hospital entrance, but the sight of flashing cameras and a sea of microphones brings me to an abrupt stop.
The press. Of course they'd be here.
The questions hit me like a tidal wave, and I feel my anxiety skyrocket.
"Is Jacob okay?"
"What happened on the ice?"
"Do you think this will affect your wedding?"
Chest tightening, I attempt to navigate through the throng of reporters, murmuring "no comment" and "excuse me" as I press forward. They're relentless, shouting louder with each step I take toward the hospital's front doors.
"Please, can you give us any updates?"
"Who's to blame for the accident?"
"How are you holding up?"
How am I holding up?
I’m a mess.
A complete and utter mess, but God forbid I show it now.
For Jacob's sake, I need to keep it together. I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace as I finally break free and dash toward the reception desk.
My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the noise. All I can think about is reaching Jacob, being by his side, and finding out if he’s okay. The automatic doors swoosh open, and I dive inside, leaving the chaos of the press behind.
The sterile smell of antiseptic greets me as I rush through the lobby, fighting the urge to gag.
My shoes squeak against the polished floor as I weave past bustling nurses and the odd, confused patient.
I keep my eyes focused on the signs overhead: Intensive Care Unit, third floor.
"Elevator. Elevator."
It's a chant I mutter to myself, scanning left and right until I find the silver doors gleaming invitingly at the end of the hallway.
I practically barrel my way through a group of interns, who scatter like pigeons as I jab the up button repeatedly.
Come on, come on.
