Page 45 of Meet Me in the Vines
My vision is hazy, no matter how fervently I blink to bring the room back into focus. A scuffle happens in front of me, bodies moving. I can’t tell what I am looking at. I float in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay awake.
I want to sleep. Let me rest my eyes now.
The struggle turns still. I feel strong arms wrap around me and lift me up. The noises around me muffle, dampened by the enormous pounding in my head. There’s someone beside us, another blurry silhouette smudged like ink spilled on wet paper.
My eyelids shut.
I can’t do it.
“I’ve got you, baby. It’s okay. Mouse, I’m here. I’ve got you,” he echoes.
Donovan?
Sleep takes me away as soon as I hearMouse.Quiet, dark, still, and gone.
The first thing I smell is sterile air, almost too clean. A fifty-pound weight sits heavily on my chest as I try to get up. The pain is unbearable, like I’ve been dragged through a sea of glass. There’s the sharp stabbing up and down my legs. The dull ache in my temples, thumping with every blink. The screaming ring in my ears. But I’m alive.
The fluorescent white lights above blind me and I blink rapidly to focus my vision. A faint beeping sound blips in my ear as I look over and see the neon green line on the monitor spike in a steady cadence.
I open my mouth to call out for help and a hot torch of scorching fire brands my vocal cords. I silently cry out, wincing at the pain. A hoarse breath escapes my throat. I run my fingers down the column of my throat. It’s sensitive to the touch. I gently press my lymph nodes, puffy and swollen.
My head stops spinning for a moment to focus on the corner of the room where a body slumps in a chair. I squint my eyes only to see a sleeping, beautiful man. My man.
My Donovan.
His arms are crossed, chin tucked into himself. His shoulders rise and fall with every breath. I need to see his eyes.
He’s here? He’s in New York? How long? The dull ache in my temples persists as I try to piece together the last memories I have. I wince at the sharp stab that pierces the side of my head. What the fuck happened to me?
I shuffle in the hospital bed, tubes attached to my arms, constricting my range of motion. His head slowly rises and his eyes flicker open. And then he looks my way. The pull from his ocean blues searing into me is enough to take any pain I feel away in an instant. And for a moment, I feel nothing. No throbbing, no sharpness, no sting. As soon as his eyes meet mine, I know I’m going to be okay.
He scrubs a hand over his face and rushes to the side of my bed, dragging the chair with him along the floor. The instant our hands touch, the years of heartache, confusion, and anger fade to nothing. He’s here.
“Hey, Mouse,” he whispers sweetly. His smile is small, but it’s enough to expose his sweet dimples—I’d reach out and touch them if I could. He opens up my hand and lays my palm on his cheek, kissing the inside. I try to respond, but he shushes me and laces his fingers through mine, pressing his lips against my knuckles.
You’re here. I missed you. I love you.
“It’s best you don’t talk. Your throat needs to heal. There’s a lot of bruising and your vocal cords are swollen. You also have a mild concussion, but with rest, you’ll be okay,” he softly whispers. My eyes search his for answers, and it’s like he reads my mind.
“I booked a flight yesterday. Noah gave me your address. He wasn’t completely sure if you still lived there, but I came anyway.”
He gently kisses my fingers, taking a deep breath before he continues. “I landed and took a cab straight to your apartment. The doorman wouldn’t let me in when I asked to see you. A guy walking in asked how I knew your name. He told me his name was Briggs.” A small smile of relief appears on my lips. I knew Briggs was good people.
“I begged him to let me come up to see you. I came to fight for you, to explain everything and ask for your forgiveness,” he murmurs. His gaze tears away from me for only a second, and my hand is on his cheek, gently moving him back to look in my direction. His jaw clenches, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down.
“He’s a good guy. He let me in, and that’s when we heard you screaming,” he croaks out, his eyes watering. He clears his throat and pushes the tears away, squeezing my hand tighter.
“Briggs and I barged in just in time as Kellan was…choking you,” he fumes, his eyes darkening as he replays the painful memory back in his head. The memory of Kellan’s death grip around my neck suddenly becomes clear. Lack of air, scorching pain, everything fading to black. “I tackled him to get him off of you, and Briggs came in and knocked him out with the butt end of his handgun.”
I close my eyes and take a second to absorb his words. It’s a lot to take in. A heavy weight of guilt and shame form in my chest.
If I had never written that letter to Donovan, I wouldn’t have made Kellan so angry. It’s my fault that I’m lying here, beaten. Donovan shouldn’t have to see me this way. The tears build up beneath my eyelids, but I’m too tired to push them away. I’m tired of lying. I’m tired of being weak.
My lip quivers, thinking about how sorry I am for this whole mess. When I look up at Donovan, the shadows under his eyes give weight to his expression: sad, hurt, and angry. I did this to him.
I mouth, “I’m sorry,” and he shakes his head.
“No, Mouse. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you,” his voice cracks. I can see the tears welling in his eyes. He is trying to be strong for me, but I need him to know how grateful I am. He came back for me.
