Page 19 of Hold Us Close
“Where am I?” I hear myself ask.
“Está en el hospital. San Juan de Dios,” a woman says. Different woman from before. Not Layla either. Shit, my head hurts. “Do you know your name?” she asks in Spanish.
“My name?”
I sit up and glance around me. Heavy dread presses down on me as I realize I really am in the hospital like she said. An attractive dark-haired woman holds a clipboard and stares at me with interest.
“Um, it’s Landen. Landen O’Brien.”
“Ah. Well, Señor O’Brien, it seems you were jumped. A young lady found you in the street, beaten and barefoot.”
“Jesus.” Fuck me. “How long have I been here?” Layla’s probably worried sick.
“A little over an hour.”
“Okay, can I go home now?”
“Perdón?? You have two dozen stitches, a busted face, and possible internal bleeding. You just now came to, the police are waiting for your statement, and it’s a wonder you were even left alive. And you ask when can you go home?” Her face twists in confusion.
“Yes, ma’am,” I croak out. “My girlfriend, I need to call her. Can I do that at least?” My ribs stab me in protest as I sit all the way up.
“I don’t know. Can you?”
Bile rises in my throat and my head swims in response to the overwhelming pain. “I’d like to try.”
“Speak with the Policía first. Then make your call.”
I thank her and nod at the two uniformed officers who push the curtain around my bed aside and enter.
I give them a brief statement about what happened, trying to rush it along so I can call Layla.
“Hell of a place to go for a run,” one of them tells me. At least I think that’s what he says. After three years, I can hold a decent conversation in Spanish, but my head is pounding so I’m struggling to translate as quickly as they’re speaking.
“Yes, sir. I won’t be revisiting that part of town anytime soon.”
“Let’s hope not,” the taller of the two says, putting his notepad away. “You were lucky this time. You probably wouldn’t be again. Call us if you think of anything else.”
I assure them that I will and breathe a sigh of relief when they finally leave. Pretty sure one of them mumbles the Spanish word for “fucking idiot” on the their way out. Agreed.
Being careful not to disturb my battered ribs, I reach for the phone on my bedside table.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hey, baby.”
“Landen? Where are you? Are you okay? Whose number is this?”
The panic in her voice, the concern weighing her questions down, kills me. Hurts a hundred times worse than any of my injuries. I treated her like dirt. Worse than dirt. I fucked her like a man possessed and then blew up over something stupid and walked out. And here she is, worried about me. Still loving me more than I deserve.
“Calm down. I’m okay. I’m so sorry, Layla. So damn sorry.” Tears well in my eyes. I hate myself. How can I love her likeshedeserves when I hate myself so damn much?
“Please come home,” she pleads. My chest tightens, squeezing my heart so hard I can’t breathe.
“Um, I would. Listen, don’t freak out. I’m okay. I’m just…kind of in the hospital.”
“What? Oh my God, what happened?”
I can picture her beautiful face, those gorgeous eyes widening in panic. “Breathe, angel. I swear I’m fine. Can you grab my ID and the insurance card and meet me at San Juan de Dios? There’s cash for a cab in my wallet.”
