Page 36 of That One Moment

Empty. Broken. Full of regret. Confused. Relieved. Those would all have been better answers but no one wants to hear that. She looks at me with furrowed brows, a groove appearing on her forehead.

She nods as though she’s heard this lie a thousand times already today, but doesn’t let her smile drop. “Good, that’s good. The doctor will be with you shortly and he will discuss the next steps for your care.”

“I just want to go home, when can I leave?” I ask. I don’t even know what the time is but there’s a window near my bed and it’slight out. It was dark when the other nurse first checked me over so I know a few hours have passed.

“Because of your injuries,” she looks at my arm briefly before her eyes meet mine. “You’ll need to be assessed by a member of the hospital’s psychiatric liaison team. The doctor shouldn't be much longer, and he will give you all the details and answer any questions you may have.” She smiles at me again, and I let her words sink in. I know they have to assess me because of my wrist - because of what I tried to do. I understand that, but I really just want to leave.

“You suffered a concussion,” the nurse adds. “But it’s minor, though you may experience some pain and nausea for a few days. It’s best if you refrain from drinking alcohol, spending too much time looking at a screen or doing anything that requires physical exertion.”

She moves a cup of water closer to me. “We’ve put an IV in because along with the physical injuries and concussion, you’re also dehydrated.” I nod and make a show of lifting the cup again.

She leaves, and I’m all alone in the quiet room. The bed next to me is empty, though I recall there was someone there earlier this morning, or at least I think there was. I’m still not entirely sure which memories belong to today. The hospital is louder now too - the chatter of patients and hospital staff, the beeping of machines, the sounds of footsteps up and down the corridor outside my room. There’s also a faint scent of coffee, and when it reaches my nose, my stomach turns. My head hurts worse than any hangover I’ve ever had, and when I lift my hand and rub the back of it, there’s a tender spot there.

With nothing else to do but wait for the doctor to come and assess me, I close my eyes. I don’t fall asleep, but I let my mind wander and it goes to the place it always does - to summers when we were kids, to holidays on the beach and to Christmases in the snow. It goes to the times when I truly remember being happy.

Movement at the door has my eyes shooting open. I feel that confused sensation again - like I’m muddling things up, but my head feels clear. Even the throbbing has subsided somewhat. It hits me then, as my eyes meet emerald green ones that I haven’t seen in three years, what that niggling thing was. A memory that most definitely belongs in this time and place. Of me shaking my head when I thought of Cooper then handing my phone to the nurse and asking her to call my emergency contact.

Fuck.

Shit.

No, no, no.

I curse the me from a few hours ago.

Jamie walks in, closes the door behind him, and sits in the chair next to my bed. I don’t take my eyes off the door as it closes. Even once it’s fully shut, I focus on a nick in the light brown wood and the remnants of a sticker below the frosted glass window pane.

I can feel him next to me, feel his eyes on me. It’s something I’ve felt before - I’m that little rabbit again, being watched by a hawk. He clears his throat and I ready myself for his next words, though I have no idea what they’ll be. We haven’t spoken since Cooper’s funeral.

When I look his way, Jamie’s studying my arm, right where the bandage sits, and though I doubt hospital staff will have told him what happened, heknows. He’s always seen me in ways that make my heart both sink and soar.

“Why did you do it?” he asks, confirming what I already knew. His voice is deeper than I remember, and when I look closer, I notice more that’s different about him. His eyes don’t sparkle like they used to, and his hair, though still the same colour, is messy and unkempt. He’s lost weight too - not loads but enough to notice. And his smile - the one that beamed whenever helooked at Cooper - is nowhere to be seen. Not even the inkling of a laugh line remains.

It seems ridiculous, given our past, that he’d ask this, and I want to yell the truth at him. To rage and scream and hit him and tell him to fuck off. I want to tell him that I tried so hard for three fucking years to be better, todobetter.

For three years, I worked really hard to deserve the life I got to keep when I walked away from that crash. I got a job, I moved into a really nice apartment and I even made a friend. I did everything I could to feel like I was worthy of the chance I was given. But I don’t deserve it, I only deserve to feel this pain and this bottomless pit of despair.

I want to say all of this and then, I want him to say he gets why I did what I did.

“You know the reason,” I say, wishing I actually had the strength to be honest with him.

“Okay.” Jamie dips his head and scans his hands, turning them this way and that before curling them into fists and laying them on his lap. He looks back at me.

“Okay,” I repeat his answer, watching him watch me.

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. Shakes his head and wipes a hand through his brown locks before speaking. “Why did you put me down as your emergency contact?”

Tipping my head, I look up at the ceiling. Square, gray and white spotted tiles. At least three of them have long cracks in them and I follow a line from one end of the tile to the other. Then I move on to the next, tracing the line with my eyes, well aware that I’m ignoring the question Jamie just asked.

“Caiden,” he tries again and I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut briefly before daring to look at him.

What a fucking good question. Why did I put Jamie Durand, a man I never planned to see again, in my phone - and on mymedical records - as my emergency contact? I mean, I know why, but that doesn’t make it any easier to say.

“There was always a chance this is where I would end up,” I start, wringing my hands together on my lap. “And I needed them to call someone who wouldn’t care if I lived or died.” Jamie lets out a sharp breath, a hurt puff of air, but he doesn’t speak. “I haven’t spoken to my mother since the funeral and my dad…” I let the rest of the explanation trail off. Things with my dad are hard to talk about. I'd have thought cutting my mum out would have been the hard part, but it hasn't been. Maybe because I finally realised what Cooper did all along - that she didn't care enough about us to deserve all the time I spent on her.

“After Coop died, I thought about it long and hard and decided that if anything ever happened to me, I needed the person who dealt with everything to not care about me.”

“So you picked me.” Jamie’s voice is soft, lower than before, and his throat bobs as he swallows audibly. He swipes at his eyes and nods as though coming to some sort of conclusion. “You’re right, I don’t care,” he says as he stands. There’s an edge to his voice that wasn’t there before and even though he’s only agreeing with me, his words sting. I rub at my sternum, and his eyes snap to my wrist again before he notices me following his gaze. Then he stands taller and taps the bed next to my leg.

---