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I swallow and nod, my voice coming out smaller than I intend. “Okay. Yeah. Thank you.”
Simon gives me a small, reassuring nod before turning back to Theo. “You ready to go get some pictures of your arm?” he asks, voice light, like this is just another adventure instead of something that’s going to hurt.
I know better. I broke my own arm when I was eight, and I still remember how brutal those X-ray positions were—how the tech had to twist and hold my arm just right while I tried not to scream. The thought of Theo going through that makes my stomach twist all over again.
A small shiver runs through me, and for once I’m grateful Simon offered to go. I don’t think I could watch our son cry like that again without completely falling apart.
Simon leans in and lifts Theo carefully off the bed. His bicep brushes against my arm in the process, warm and solid, and the brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me. He settles Theo into the wheelchair with gentle hands, then straightens.
“We’ll be back to Mama soon,” he tells Theo, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Then his eyes find mine again. His gaze sweeps over me, but I can’t read whatever’s behind it before he turns and follows the tech out of the room, pushing Theo’s wheelchair ahead of him.
The door swings shut behind them, and the sudden quiet feels deafening. I let out a shaky breath and press my palms to my face, trying to steady myself.
***
Time stretches in the quiet hospital room once they’re gone. I take the chance to pull myself together—wiping the tear tracks off my cheeks, then fishing my phone out of my bag to text my mom. She’d been frantic when I called her from the ambulance, and I need something to focus on besides the echo of Theo’s cries still ringing in my ears.
After updating my mom, I go ahead and put in a sub order for work tomorrow. I doubt we'll be out of here at a reasonable time, and I know I won't feel up for teaching tomorrow even if we are.
It feels like forever before the door finally opens again.
This time, Simon isn’t pushing the wheelchair. Theo is curled against his chest instead, arms tucked in close, his little face still blotchy from crying. Simon meets my eyes with a knowing look as he steps inside.
“He wasn’t a fan of getting the X-rays done,” he says quietly.
“Wan’ Mama,” Theo whimpers immediately, squirming in Simon’s hold the second he spots me.
“Aww, come here, baby,” I coo, reaching out. Simon passes him over carefully, and I settle back against the pillows with Theo in my lap, rocking him gently. He buries his face in my neck for a minute before settling, content as long as I’m holding him.
We end up in the hospital bed together—me propped against the headboard with Theo tucked into my side, his good arm slung across my stomach. I hand him my phone with a cartoon pulled up, and he gets lost in it almost instantly, the soft glow lighting up his face.
The silence that follows is awkward and heavy.
Simon stays in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, thumbs flying across his screen. His brow is pulled tight, the muscle in his jaw flexing every few seconds. His expression is sharp—dark brows drawn low over stormy eyes, lips pressed into a thin line, that familiar crease between his brows deeper than usual. He looks frustrated. Angry, even. Every so often his fingers pause like he’s reading something that pisses him off, then the furious typing starts again.
I know exactly who he’s texting.
Veronica.
The thought sits sour in my stomach. Of course she’d be blowing him up right now. Of course he’d feel the need to answer, even here, even while our son is sitting in a hospital bed with a broken wrist and a cut on his head. I bite the inside of my cheek and look away, focusing on the cartoon Theo’s watching instead.
It shouldn’t bother me this much. Simon has every right to text with his girlfriend. But watching him sit there, completely checked out while Theo is still sniffling beside me, makes something hot and resentful twist in my chest.
Just as I’m seriously contemplating throwing Simon’s phone in the trash, the doctor comes back in with Theo’s X-ray results.
His wrist is definitely broken, and somehow, once again, I’m more emotional about it than Theo is.
My stomach drops the second the doctor confirms it, guilt twisting painfully through my chest even though I know kids break bones all the time. Theo, meanwhile, perks up the second he hears the word cast, like this is somehow the best possible outcome of the night.
He gets to pick the color.
Apparently that changes everything.
He spends several very serious minutes debating his options before finally choosing, happily holding his little arm out while the nurses wrap his wrist. Within five minutes, he has every nurse in the room charmed. He tells them how he fell off the bed, how much it hurt, how brave he was, and exactly which friends at school he plans to show his cast to first.
By the time they’re finished, he’s practically forgotten that the damn thing is attached to a broken bone.
I haven’t.
