My heart tumbles even further if that’s even possible. And we just stare as the noise and excitement in the room abates, everyone taking a step back and silently watching our exchange.
Yet my feet are frozen in place as I try and read the emotions racing rapid-fire through Colton’s eyes. He seems apologetic and maybe unsettled, but there’s also an underlying emotion I can’t place that has trepidation eating at the corners of my mind.
A nurse whisks past me, brushing my shoulder and breaking Colton’s hold on me. She brings the straw from a cup of water to his mouth and he sips eagerly until it’s gone.
“Well, you’re a thirsty one, aren’t you?” she teases before adding, “I’ll go get you some more but let’s make sure this stays down before we waterlog you, okay?”
I try to quiet my hiccupping draws of breath but can’t seem to calm my anxiety. I feel Quinlan’s arm go around my shoulder as she sniffles herself, but I don’t even acknowledge her. I can’t bear for my eyes to focus on anything but the tear–blurred vision in front of me.
The nurse reaches over and takes a chart from Dr. Irons and leaves. I haven’t moved yet. I can’t seem to. I just stare at Colton as Dr. Irons examines him: tracking his eyes, testing his reflexes, feeling the strength in his grip as he squeezes. I notice he asks Colton to repeat the grip test for his right hand a couple of times, and I can see panic flicker over Colton’s features. I can’t drag my eyes away. I trace over every inch of him, so very afraid I’ll miss something—anything—about these first few moments.
“Well, all seems quite well,” Dr. Irons says eventually after he examines him some more. “How are you feeling, Colton?”
I watch his throat work a swallow and his eyes close with a wince before opening them again. I take a step forward, wanting to help take the pain away. He glances around at everyone in the room while he finds his voice. “My head. Hurts,” he rasps. “Hand?” He looks down to his right hand and then back up, confusion apparent in his eyes. “Happened? How long?”
Dr. Irons sits down on the edge of the bed next to him and begins to explain about the crash, the operation, and the amount of time he has been in a coma. “As for your hand, that could be a result of some residual swelling still in your brain. We’ll just have to watch it and see how it progresses over time.” Colton nods at him, concentration etched on his face. “Can you tell me the last thing that you remember?”
I suck in a breath as Colton blows one out. He swallows again and licks his lips. “I remember … knocking four times.” His voice comes out, his vocal chords scraping over gravel.
“What else?” Andy asks.
Colton looks over at his dad and subtly nods his head at him before squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. “It’s like snippets in my head. Certain things are clear,” he rasps before swallowing and then opens his eyes to look at Dr. Irons. “Others … they’re vague. Like I can feel them there but can’t remember them.”
“That’s normal. Sometimes—”
“Fireworks on pit row,” he cuts the doctor off. “Waking up overdressed.” Colton’s eyes lift and find mine with the words that let me know he remembers me, remembers my memorable pre-race wake-up call. A slight smile curls up one corner of his mouth looking so out of place against the pallid tone of his usually bronze skin.
And if he didn’t own my heart already—if he hadn’t tattooed every single inch of it with his unmistakable stamp—he just did.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and spills over. I can’t stop my feet from moving and stepping up to the edge of the bed as his words fade and his eyes track my movement. My grin widens, my tears fall faster, and my heart swells as I feel relief for the first time in days. I reach out and squeeze his hand resting on the mattress beside him.
“Hi.” It sounds stupid, but it’s the first and only word I can manage, my throat clogged with emotion.
“Hi,” he whispers, that lopsided grin I love ghosting his mouth.
We just stare at each other for a beat, eyes saying so much and yet lips speaking nothing. I lace my fingers with his and I see the alarm trigger in his eyes again when he tries to respond but his hand doesn’t.
“It’s okay,” I soothe, unable to resist. I reach my other hand out and cup the side of his face, welcoming the feeling of the muscle in his jaw ticking beneath my palm. “You’ve gotta give it some time to heal.”
Emotions dance at a lightning pace in the green of his eyes as he tries to comprehend everything. And in this moment the ache in my chest transforms from the fear of the unknown to sympathy over watching the man I love struggle with the knowledge that his usually virile, responsive body is anything but.
“Rylee’s right,” Dr. Irons says, breaking the connection between us. “You need to give it some time. What else do you remember, Colton? You woke up underdressed and knocked four times,” he prompts, his face masking the mystification he must feel over not understanding the meaning behind these statements. “Then what?”
“No,” Colton says, wincing when he shakes his head instinctively. “First knocking and then waking up.”
My eyes snap up to Beckett’s because of all people he’ll understand that this is not the order in which the events happened. Dr. Irons notes the startled look on my face and shakes his head for me to remain quiet.
“Not a problem. What else do you remember about the day regardless of the order?” Colton gives him a strange look and the doctor continues. “Sometimes when your brain has been traumatized like yours has, memories have a way of shifting and changing. For some, the sequence of events may be off but they’ll still be there. For others there are some memories that are completely clear and others that are lost. I have some patients who remember the day of their trauma perfectly fine but have a void of time during other times or events that have happened. Every patient is unique.”