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All I know is, I don’t want to be held captive in my childhood home. That sounds like absolute torture.
“Did you ever get a chance to talk with your footballer?” the nurse asks as she bustles around my room, checking all the things.
Wait a minute. “What do you mean?”
The nurse pauses in what she’s doing. “Your sexy footballer you had me call last night. You wanted me to let him know you were all right.”
“I did?” I don’t remember this.
“Yes, you told me you had his number saved under Sexy Footballer, and you begged me to call him. Said you’d been trying to ring him all night, but he wouldn’t answer,” she continues, sounding so very matter-of-fact.
All the while my head feels like it might spin right off my body.
Cannon. I need to call Cannon and tell him what happened to me. Is he worried? Has he tried to call?
God, I feel terrible.
“I need to call him,” I tell her as I try to sit up. All that does, though, is hurt my head, my ribs, all of it, and I lean back into my pillow and close my eyes, hating how weak I feel.
“You can call him later. Perhaps when you return home?” The nurse leaves before I can answer her, and a frustrated sound escapes me.
I have no idea where my phone is, though they’d probably tell me I can’t use it. I have no idea where my family is either, or my friend. I’m all alone in this hospital bed, and I’m groggy from the sedative and sore…
“There’s our girl!” Father exclaims as he enters my hospital room, Mother right behind him. “We’ve been waiting all day to see you.”
“All day?” I’m frowning.
“We’ve been in the waiting room worried sick about you.” That’s actual, genuine concern in my mother’s voice as she rushes toward my hospital bed and carefully takes my hand. “Are you all right?” She brushes the hair away from my forehead and I flinch, surprised that even that tender action hurts.
I’m also flinching because my mother is actually being so…sweet.
Maybe something’s wrong with her.
“I ache everywhere,” I confess, surprised to see the sympathetic look on her face. “Especially my ribs.”
“You dislocated a few,” Dad says. “How’s the arm?”
I glance down at my right arm in a black sling. “It hurts a little.”
“The nurse told us they’re going to cast it first thing tomorrow,” Dad says. “Bright neon pink if you want it!”
He’s talking like I’m ten, and I almost roll my eyes, but then I see the concern in his gaze, the weariness in the lines in his face, and I realize I’ve worried them both.
And for some reason, the realization makes me want to cry.
Tears suddenly streaming down my face, I tell him, “I want out of here.”
“Ah, darling, don’t cry.” Mother tries her best to enfold me in her arms, but she bumps against my broken arm, making me cry out in pain, and my ribs are killing me. She finally gives up and pats me on the head like I’m an obedient dog. “The doctor said he thinks you should stay another night. They want to monitor those ribs. Make sure you don’t have any internal bleeding.”
Internal bleeding? That sounds serious.
“You’re not currently bleeding internally,” Father adds as he paces the length of the room. “They just want to make sure.”
“Okay,” I say weakly, glancing down at my arm. Maybe I do want a neon-pink cast. I wonder if Cannon would sign it…
Cannon probably won’t even be able to see me wearing it.
“Where’s Evie and George?” I ask, noting how Mother’s lips thin, but otherwise she doesn’t react to those two names said together.
