Page 29 of Doctor Hot Mess

ELEVEN

Jonah

3:17 PM

Sittingin the sterile light of the hospital hallway, I can’t shake the weight of Harper’s words. She cared for Lila like she was family—like she mattered. And for a moment, I almost believed Harper still saw me as someone who mattered too.

I drag a hand down my face, the tension in my chest refusing to ease. I’ve spent the better part of my life keeping things easy, light. No strings, no messes, no room for anyone to need me in ways I can’t handle. But seeing Harper today, hearing the way Lila spoke about her...it’s like someone pressed a finger to the bruise I’ve been ignoring for years.

I glance down at my phone as more of a habit than anything else. The conversation with Harper still lingers, her steady voice replaying in my head. I can’t blame her for keeping her guard up—I haven’t exactly been the kind of friend worth holding onto.

But that’s a problem for another time. Right now, Lila needs me. I stand and pocket my phone, shaking off the thoughts as I head back into her room.

When I step back into Lila’s room, she’s propped up slightly on the bed, looking a little less like she’s been through a war. The bruising on her face is still severe, but her eyes are sharp and focused, tracking me as I pull the chair closer.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You’re looking a little more like yourself.”

She raises an eyebrow, managing a dry smirk despite the swelling. “If this is what I look like, I might need a refund on my face.”

I laugh softly, leaning back in the chair. “Good to see your sense of humor’s intact.”

“Hey,” I say, grabbing the chair by her bed and pulling it closer. “Seriously, how’re you feeling?”

“Like I lost a fight with a freight train,” she says, her voice raspy but carrying a hint of humor. “Which, I guess, isn’t far off.”

I grin, though it feels forced. “Well, you’ve always been scrappy.”

She chuckles weakly, then winces. “Scrappy didn’t save me this time.”

Her words settle uncomfortably between us, and I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Lila, what happened?”

She hesitates, her gaze fixed on the window as though she’s trying to pull the answer from the clouds. “I don’t know,” she says quietly, frustration edging into her tone. “It’s all... blurry. But I remember being scared. I felt trapped, Jonah, like no matter which way I turned, they’d find me.”

I lean forward. My voice is steady but firm. “Who would find you, Lila? Do you remember where you were? What you were doing?”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head slightly. “It’s almost like a dream. Or, more like a nightmare. Things keep coming to me, certain things replaying in my mind."

"That makes sense with what you've been through."

“It smelled like... bread? Maybe fruit,” she says, her brow furrowing in concentration. “There were bags in the car, plastic ones. I remember thinking the smell didn’t fit with everything else—the gas, the leather.”

Bread and fruit? What the fuck? I know when people are coming out of an amnesic state, smells are sometimes the only things they can recall. The human brain is a wild and wondrous organ.

We Bellingers are bad at showing emotion. I can see as she talks that she was afraid. I want to pull her close and let her know she is safe.

Her hands tremble slightly, and I resist the urge to reach out, afraid of breaking the fragile thread of her thoughts. “Okay,” I say, keeping my tone measured. “You were in a car. Was someone with you? Did they say anything to you?”

Lila’s brow furrows, her face contorting in frustration. “I don’t know. I think so? There was yelling. And—” She stops abruptly, her breath catching. “Wait. Someone grabbed me. My arm.”

Her hand instinctively goes to her bicep, and my stomach twists. “Grabbed you how? Were they trying to hurt you?”

She nods slowly, her expression darkening. “Yeah. It wasn’t just a grab; it hurt. Like they wanted to drag me out of the car. And I remember thinking... ‘This is it. They’ve found me.’”

“They?” I press gently, trying not to let my urgency seep into my voice. “Lila, who are they? Who were you running from?”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes dart around the room, unfocused, as though she’s trying to pluck the answer from the air. “I don't know who, specifically,” she whispers finally, her voice barely audible. “I think they were the collectors sent by the bookies.”

My chest tightens, anger flaring beneath my calm exterior. “The ones you said you owed money to on Friday? They tracked you here?”

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