Page 9 of Still The One

Chelsea is checking his monitors but glances at me. ‘Well, let’s see.’ She props a hand on her hip. ‘He has a deranged left shoulder, his left wrist is fractured, and he’s got many broken ribs on both sides. He also has a collapsed lung, ruptured spleen, a bruised liver, and multiple internal injuries that surgery just repaired. No brain bleeds, luckily – thank God for helmets. And his cervical spine looks good – but bruised. As you probably know, the next forty-eight hours will be his biggest challenge, but we’re keeping him as comfortable as possible. If he stays stable for the next few days, the doctor will extubate before he has another surgery on that shoulder and wrist.’

Jeesh. He needs more OR time? Oh, God this is bad. So, so bad.

My gaze meanders to the many wires and tubes that are everywhere. It’s terrifying from this side of it. He’s shirtless – which I’ve always enjoyed – but his left arm is strapped to his side, probably to stabilize both his shoulder and wrist until theydo the surgeries she mentioned. Machines on either side of him beep with different patterns. His dark loose curls are a mess, and he’s dirty, as is usual with his career choice, but his face is perfect – besides the tube taped between his lips. To quote Chelsea, thank God for helmets.

‘Wow. OK. Typically, he’s a way better rider than this. I can’t believe this has happened.’

For years, he’s tempted fate with every ride he takes. It only ever gave me a mini heart attack watching him mid-air doing a death-defying stunt with a two-hundred-pound bike hovering nearby. Which is why, since we broke up, I haven’t really kept up with him because who does that after someone breaks your heart? No one willingly stresses themselves out. I made a clean break.

‘Keep talking to him,’ Chelsea says. ‘He can hear you.’

That’s sort of what I’m afraid of. Sure, it was a clean break, for me. However, when we parted, I didn’t exactly leave things on a good note. In fact, Ionlyleft a note. He didn’t question it. And until today, besides his yearly FB comment, we’ve never spoken again. So… I have absolutely no idea how this is going to go down. Will the sound of my voice flatline the poor guy? It hasn’t so far.

‘We’ll be back to check on him in a few, or when something starts beeping,’ Chelsea says, motioning between her and the nurse now logging out of the computer. ‘If you need me, press his call button,’ she says while washing her hands. Then they exit the room, closing the curtain and door behind them, leaving just him and me in the scariest place I’ve ever been.

I spend a moment looking him over – something I didn’t allow myself to do earlier. Five o’clock shadow, present. That’s his ‘look’. God – and his home gym – blessed this man with strong shoulders, muscley (but not ‘overdone’) arms, and an oh sweet six-pack. Maybe I can’t see that part now, with his armstabilized across his mid-section – but a girl never forgets a body like his. He has a single scar through one of his dark eyebrows that looks intentional, but it’s from the first fall he ever took on a bike when he was four. And though I can’t see them now, his eyes are such a light blue they look like sea glass – it’s the first thing you notice about him. The man is devastatingly handsome. Seeing him like this, even though I see this kind of thing daily, is terrifying.

‘Didn’t quite land this one, eh?’ I ask, holding his hand gently in mine.

No answer. Not even a grin. I heave a sigh. ‘I don’t even know what to say, Fost.’ My voice cracks, which surprises me as I’m pretty emotionless these days. ‘And no, I’m not crying. I just—God, you’re so broken that I’m scared. I’m also certain I’m not the girl you want to wake up to, so give me a hint somehow. Is there someone I can call for you? Your parents? Matty? A girlfriend Google doesn’t know about? Blink once for yes.’ I sniffle, wiping away tears with my free hand.

His eyes stay closed, not even a flinch. He’s still as a corpse, with a mechanical lung keeping him this side of the earth. What do I do? I glance around the room again, spotting a bag with the words PERSONAL BELONGINGS on a nearby chair. Surely, his phone is in there, and I can call his family; it’s the least I can do.

I dig through the bag. In it is his riding gear that I cut into shreds so I could get it off him – we won’t tell him I did that personally because that’s going to piss him off. He’s very protective of his gear. I push aside his boots. Gloves. Socks. Underwear… and at the bottom of the bag are his wallet and cell phone.

I grab the phone and tap the screen on. It’s locked with a passcode. Great. I haven’t talked to this man in years. How am I going to figure this out? I flash the phone in front of his face, but nothing happens. Either the intubation tube is confusing it, orhe doesn’t use Face ID. What about his thumb? Gently, I lay his right thumb over the reader. Still locked.

Think, Eve,think. What are some of the most important things to this man?

Motorcycles. Possibly not after this, though?

Doughnuts. Should I look up Voodoo Doughnut’s phone number? I don’t think so…

His birthday? Maybe. I tap it in, but his phone buzzes no.

Mybirthday? I should be concerned if this one works, but enter it anyway. Buzz. No go.

Wait, what year was he fifteen? He’s thirty-five now… so twenty years ago would be 2004. I tap in the numbers, and his phone magically unlocks. He won his first title that year. Fifteen is his rider number. He considers it lucky – I’m not so sure at this moment.

I tap on his list of contacts, scrolling for some cutesy candy nickname he’s given a new girl, or for his parents. I come across his mother first – Donna Foster. I stop at her name, hesitantly hovering my index finger over her listing. We’ve only briefly met and I didn’t feel like she loved me. She was not happy to hear we’d eloped after thirty days either. Nope, can’t call her. I scroll again, landing on Matty’s number.

‘Foster?’ he says, confusion in his voice.

‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s Eve.’

‘Eve?’

The glass door slides open and Matty walks in, phone still to his ear. Our eyes meet. A look of puzzlement is plastered on the older man’s face. ‘Eve?’ He drops his device after spotting me. ‘Why, uh—why are you here?’ he asks.

I lift my shoulders. ‘I didn’t plan to be, but I work here,’ I tell him. ‘I was in the ER when he came in. I’m also shockingly still his emergency contact.’

‘Really?’ he asks, frowning at the sight of Foster. ‘I didn’t know you two were involved again. He hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘He wouldn’t, because we’re not.’

He lifts a curious eyebrow. ‘Keep talking,’ he says, now across the bed from me, inspecting the parts of Foster that are injured.

‘I didn’t even know he was in the city. We don’t talk any more.’

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