Page 11 of Midnight and Mine

It hasn’t been long when Wynter’s eyes flitter open. The doctor told me not to startle her, so I stay quiet, even though I stand and squeeze her hand.

She forces her eyes open wide and they fall shut again. But then she peers at me and mumbles, “Drake.”

I look over my shoulder, and he’s not in the room.

Does she think I’m Drake?

Chapter Five

Wynter

“Drake.”

I look at the brown-haired man standing next to my bed and realize he’s holding my hand. Jerking it from his grasp, I say, “Where’s Drake?”

He stares at me with pleading eyes, and I can’t put my finger on who he is.

“Drake went to get the Bojangles you asked me to pick up,” he says with hurt cracking through his voice.

Now it’s me who doesn’t understand what this man is talking about. Why would he bring me Bojangles? I don’t even know him.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.

Just then, someone bursts into the room. “She’s awake.” The nurse calms as she checks the monitors. “My name is Nancy, and I’ll be your nurse while you’re in ICU. Can you tell us what happened?”

Glancing around the room, I realize I’m in a hospital. “I don’t know,” I say as I admire the pink cast on my leg.

“It’s okay. It might take some time for you to remember. You hit your head.” Nancy motions for the man to follow her out the door. All I can hear her say is, “It’s normal for patients with head trauma to be confused.”

My eyes flit around the room and my body. Why am I here? It’s obvious I need to be in the hospital, but I can’t remember why or how I got here. I strain to hear their faint whispers, but it’s no use. I’m so tired, I can’t hold my eyes open and fade back into the black hole.

I slowly open my eyes again without the concept of how much time has passed. The room is dark, with monitors beeping quietly in red, green, and yellow as I attempt to clear my throat. I see a tray with a Styrofoam cup but when I go to grab it, the tube in my arm stops me, like it won’t stretch that far. “Water.”

Maybe I’m dreaming. A combination of antiseptic and fried chicken blankets the room.

I feel a heavy weight on my hand and as I turn my head, it’s the man I don’t recognize surrounding my hand with an intimacy I can’t comprehend. His eyes are closed with his chin in his chest. I inch my hand from his, a millimeter at a time, but he squeezes, then his eyes flare open. When he sees me looking at him, a broad smile creeps up his cheeks.

My heart races as I battle to figure out how I know this man. Or maybe he’s a volunteer from the hospital who sits with people who don’t have family.

“Do you need anything?” he asks in a gentle tone.

“Water,” I scratch out.

He releases my hand, strides to the other side of me, and pours water into the cup. “You’re a little banged up, so I’ll hold the cup for you. Is that okay?”

I nod, and he brings the white cup to my lips. Oh, the cold, crisp water feels good coating my mouth and throat. He brings the cup down and silently asks if I want another drink with just a head movement. Taking another sip, I sigh in relief as it goes down.

His eyes are tethered to mine, and the scrutiny makes me squirm in the bed. When I do, I cry out in pain. My head throbs, and sharp pain travels up my spine. Immediately, he grabs my head and strokes the hair from my face.

When the pain lets go of me, I manage to ask, “Who are you?”

His cheek ticks under his eye, and a pained expression washes over his face. Tears well in his lids, threatening to spill over. Guilt weighs heavy in my soul, although I don’t know why. It’s not my intention to hurt him. It’s clear he’s a nice person and handsome as a movie star—at least in a room cloaked in darkness and shadows.

“Scott.”

“What happened to me? Do you know?”

His head moves slightly from left to right. “When I found you, you were pretty banged up.”

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