Page 43 of Sweet Southern Heat

The doctors had removed the tube from Lyle’s throat that kept him breathing just a short time ago and were hopeful he would wake soon. A nurse popped in to check on him frequently, but they monitored his vitals from a central location, affording us some privacy. I wanted mine to be the first face he saw when he awoke. My father had spent most of the day at his bedsidewhile I worked, but left just after I arrived. It was hard for him to sit in these uncomfortable chairs for long hours, and he needed to go home and rest, so I sent him away with a promise to call if anything changed.

My heart skipped a beat when Lyle’s lashes fluttered a few times before his eyes finally opened. I stood abruptly and rushed to his side, gripping the bed rails like my life depended on it.

“Lyle,” I croaked, emotion clogging my throat. His face turned to mine, and he blinked a few more times as if to clear his gaze.

“Water,” he said simply, his voice scratchy. He cleared his throat and tried to swallow. I grabbed the cup from his bedside and helped him sit up before bringing the straw to his parched lips. He took a tentative sip, swallowing it down with a wince. The nurses warned me he’d be thirsty when he woke and would likely be sore from the breathing tube. He took another drink, longer and deeper this time, before falling against his pillow with a sigh.

“What happened?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to piece together what landed him in the hospital. I swallowed thickly, wishing I didn’t have to be the one to tell him.

“You OD’d,” I answered, my voice cracking at the end. I reached for his call light and pressed the button. The staff asked that we alert them when he was fully awake so they could check him out. They were worried about neurological damage. A faraway look filled his gaze as though searching his memory.

“Do you remember anything from that night?” I asked. Before he could respond, his nurse walked in.

“You’re awake,” he said, coming over to examine him. Reaching into his pocket, the nurse pulled out a pen light and shined it into Lyle’s eyes. “Squeeze my hands,” he instructed, holding his hands out for Lyle to grab. “Good, good,” he said and requested Lyle perform a series of tasks for him. “I’ll let thedoctor know you’re awake. She’ll complete her own assessment on you, but you passed my neuro check.” He offered his hand for a fist bump, and Lyle obliged.

A moment later, Dr. Acosta swept into the room. Her raven colored hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and secured with only a pen as though she hadn’t had time to find a hair tie. I imagined she didn’t have time to do much considering she was the only doctor on the unit.

She peered over the rim of her glasses as she approached the bed, her eagle eyed stare already assessing him. She hastily introduced herself before performing a thorough neurological exam on Lyle and echoed the nurse’s sentiments.

“You’re very lucky to be alive, Mr. Crawford,” she said, replacing her stethoscope around her neck. “According to your medical records, this isn’t the first time you’ve overdosed. None of us want to see you go through this again, so I’ve asked our social worker to see you. They can help you find treatment programs and other resources to help you get and stay clean.” Lyle gritted his teeth and looked away, but nodded. Dr. Acosta shot me a sympathetic look before bidding Lyle goodbye and promising to check on him again before her shift was over.

What the good doctor didn’t realize was Lyle would likely be arrested when he left here and wouldn’t need a treatment program. I just hoped he stayed in the hospital long enough to detox and wasn’t forced to go through withdrawals in the county jail. He would receive far better treatment here and we wouldn’t have to worry about him dying after just getting him back.

Lyle was quiet for long seconds, mulling over all the doctor had said. Finally he turned his stony gaze to me. Fury burned in his eyes as the same look of betrayal from the night he'd overdosed flashed across his features. He remembered.

“Did my girl flush my stash before the medics showed up?” he asked, turning away from me. He faced straight ahead, refusing to meet my eye.

Shit. I wasn’t ready for this conversation. He’d just woken up. I thought I had more time before I’d have to break the news to him.

“No. She was more worried about getting you help.” Kara had called nine-one-one as soon as she'd found him unconscious on the bathroom floor. Then she performed CPR on him until the ambulance arrived. I doubted she even considered destroying the evidence while trying to save his life. He’d had a large amount of narcotics on him and would likely be charged with possession and maybe even intent to distribute.

“The cops show up?” he asked, and I nodded even though he wasn’t looking at me.

“Yeah,” I replied, wishing it wasn’t true. “They did.”

“Now what?” he asked like he didn’t already know. Maybe he just needed me to confirm his suspicions. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but I wouldn’t lie to him.

“You’ll probably be arrested as soon as you get out of here.” The cops had already been here once. They were just waiting until he woke up to question him. He let out a bitter laugh, and his hands balled at his sides.

“I bet you’re happy since there won’t be anything standing in your way with Olivia now.” I winced and ran a hand over my stubbled jaw.

“Olivia and I broke up,” I admitted, and his head snapped in my direction. “You are my top priority. All I care about right now is you getting better.” There was a crack in his veneer as he studied me, the stubborn and jaded tilt to his chin relaxing a bit. Maybe one day we could get past this. I just hoped when the dust settled, I could figure out a way to have both Olivia and Lyle in my life.

Chapter 38

Olivia

“I’m sellingthe bakery and moving back to Atlanta,” I said without ceremony. My mother nearly choked on her Mojito. The brim of her floppy hat bounced comically as she pounded the side of her fist against her chest to clear her throat.

“What?” she squeaked out between coughs. We were sitting on her patio, catching up while her husband, Tom, grilled steaks for dinner. “I thought you decided to stay. I’ve barely seen you,” she pouted, and I frowned. It wasn’t like she didn’t have the opportunity to see me. She was the one who left the country for weeks after Nan’s funeral. She called once to let me know she was back and stopped by the bakery briefly to see the newly remodeled space. If I hadn’t called her yesterday to let her know I wanted to see her, I wouldn’t be here now.

“I changed my mind,” I said, feigning confidence I didn’t feel. “And I’ll be here for a few more weeks, I’m sure. I still need to find a new job, and even if the bakery sells right away, it will take time to sort everything out,” I offered, hoping to ease the sting.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Mom asked, leaning forward and gripping my hand. Stunned by the sincerity and concern in her voice, I faltered.

“Yes?” The word came out more as a question than a statement.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Landon Crawford, does it?” Stunned, I gaped at her. Her face softened, and she squeezed my hands. “I realize we don’t talk much, and I haven’t been here for you like I should’ve been, but I still know what’s going on in my daughter's life.” She offered me a sympathetic smile. “I don’t want you to let another of those Crawford boys run you out of town again.”

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