Page 101 of Living with Fire

Me: I’m okay.

Mom: How are you really?

I sigh. Leave it to my mom to know even over a text that my initial answer was bullshit.

Me: Tired.

Mom: How’s Savanna?

Me: No change.

I frown, glancing at Savanna’s still form on the bed. A groan here and there, but I gave up hoping a while ago it would lead to anything else. Besides those little sounds, nothing.

My phone buzzes again.

Mom: Are you at the hospital?

Me: Yep.

Mom: Have you had dinner?

Me: Nope. I’ll grab something when her dad and brothers are back.

Mom: Don’t you dare. I’m on my way with dinner for you.

Me: Mom, don’t. That’s over an hour’s drive for you.

Her reply is instant, as though she knew what I would say and had it typed out already.

Mom: Too late, I’m in the car. See you soon. Love you.

Me: You’re the best. Love you too.

I’m chuckling lightly at my mom as I stare at the conversation on my phone. My attempt to stop her from coming was half assed because it would be nice to have her here, even if it’s a brief visit before she has to head back home.

I’m not a momma’s boy by any means, but there’s something comforting about having your mom around when times are tough, and I’m man enough to admit that.

Hell, it’s nice to have support, period. Liam, Brody, and Jordan have all stepped up to help take care of the bar while Savanna’s in the hospital and I want to be by her side. I think Liam is doing it because he’s feeling a little screwed up after witnessing the accident, not that he’s told me as much. I just got the sense after talking to him today that he needed a distraction. I can’t blame him. I’d love one right now.

As if someone heard my thoughts, there’s a groan from the bed, causing my head to snap up.

I suppose I do still have a little hope with every sound that comes from her. Each of them has me looking, balancing on the edge of my seat, wishing her eyes open next. So far, I’ve been left disappointed every time.

Another groan, followed by a sigh has me sitting up a little straighter.

The sigh is new. So is the head movement.

I watch as she turns her head towards me, groans again, stops, takes a deeper breath than before, and turns it back. The hope that always comes, and usually dissipates quickly, is rising by the second, my heart leaping into my throat with optimism.

“Sav?” I say softly, standing from my chair to get closer to the bed.

Running my thumb over the back of her fingers on her cast-covered arm, I swear I feel them wiggle against mine. The movement is so small I might be imagining it, but when it happens again, I know I’m not.

My breath catches in my throat. For a second I forget how to speak, how to form words, how to communicate, but then the words come in a rush, “Sav? Baby, can you hear me?”

Her eyes part to slits, and in that moment, I swear I could fall to my knees and cry with relief. I know she can’t help it when they close a moment later, her lips separating and moving instead. Trying to say something though no words are forming on the breath she lets out.

“Shh, hey, don’t worry about talking, okay? You sound like you’re in pain. I’ll get a nurse,” I tell her, but before I can reach over and hit the call button, her fingers are curling around mine.

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