Page 33 of Hold Us Close
The ambulance jerks to a stop as I disconnect the call. I owe Dr. Sanderson my life for talking us to staying in California.
“Her doctor is on his way,” I call out after them as they whisk her into the doors to the ER.
Now all I can do is wait.
There’s a faint beeping sound in the distance. A bright light above me. People talking. But I can’t make out what they’re saying.
I want to ask them something but I can’t remember what it is.
And then…darkness.
Sixteen. It’s how old you have to be to drive a car in most states. And it’s also the number of hours I spend in the deepest, darkest pit of hell wondering if the two most important women in my life are going to make it.
Wondering if I’m going to have to live in a world where Layla doesn’t exist. Where the tiny creature with Layla’s chin, according to the ultrasound picture, has been taken from me before she’s even had a chance to wrap me around her tiny little finger.
Kate, Corin, Skylar, and my mom surround me in the private waiting room. But I don’t want them here. I don’t want anyone here. I don’t want to have ever existed.
“She’s so strong, Landen. She’s the strongest girl I know,” is all Corin can say. Over and fucking over as I clench my hands in my hair and stare at the floor. They’ve all developed these little chants of reassurance. What none of them say is, “It’s going to be okay.”
Because no one knows if it really is.
I’m being punished, is all I can think to myself. Punished for forcing myself into her life. For taking her to Spain with me instead of letting her live her own life. Punished for taking her virginity, for getting her pregnant before we were married. For the way I reacted when she first told me the news. For being the colossal fuck-up my dad always said I was. For not being able to get a handle on my own anger. I ruined my angel. And now she’s paying for my weaknesses.
“Waiting is the hardest part,” my mom says softly from somewhere beside me.
But she’s wrong. If some doctor comes out here and tells me they didn’t make it, or that one of them did but the other didn’t, that will be the hardest part. Getting out of bed tomorrow with the world going on like everything good in it didn’t cease to exist will be the hardest part. Looking at myself in the mirror and wishing I could go with them but knowing Layla would never forgive me for taking my own life will be the hardest part.
“Family of Layla Flaherty?” a voice says into the dimly lit room.
I literally propel myself out of the seat and towards the voice. And then I freeze where I’m standing. Because if the news is bad, I don’t want it. I want one more minute, one more hour, where I can believe she can still be okay. If she’d left this world, wouldn’t I have felt it somehow?
“I’m her husb—fiancé,” I tell the man.Please God, please give me a chance to be her husband. Please. “Are they okay?” My voice breaks, and the doctor makes a face I can’t decipher.
The man in scrubs—fuck,blood-covered scrubs—is a head shorter than me, but he holds my whole damned life in his hands. “Dr. Kirkowitz is coming to speak with you shortly.” He must see my wild I’m-about-to-grab-you-and-shake-you-senseless expression because he rushes on. “They’re okay,” he informs us with a nod. “Mom just came out of surgery and is sedated, but baby is in the nursery and is healthy.”
“Thank you. Oh God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” It takes everything I have to keep from dropping to my knees then and there.
“Can we see them?” Corin asks from within the huddle that’s gathered behind me.
“Of course.”
I don’t wait to hear anything else before tearing out of the room and through the double doors. “Flaherty?” I bark at a nurse walking past, who points a dry erase board on the wall.
Rec Rm 1, it says next to her name.
“Where is Recovery Room one?” I bark again, barely resisting the urge to grab the tiny woman and shake her.
“Far end, last on the left,” the same nurse tells me, eying me cautiously.
Of course. Layla’s always made me work for it.
I sprint to the room, damn near ripping the door off the hinges as I yank it open. The soft white curtain is pulled closed, so I step around it. “Layla? Baby?”
Her head is bandaged and her eyes are closed. She’s so pale her skin is nearly translucent, and her blonde hair fades into the pale yellow bed sheets. Why isn’t she moving?
“She’s sedated,” the nurse, who must’ve followed me in, says quietly. “But she’s okay. Surgery was successful.”
“I n-need…”Dammit, breathe, O’Brien. “I need to see her. I need her to open her eyes and tell me she’s okay herself.”
