Page 13 of Protected By the Grumpy Single Dad
The ER doors swallow my son.
Behind me, a voice that can only be described as formidable clears its throat. “Go,” Melissa says from her chair, IV taped to her arm, eyes fierce. “You’re a father first.”
“I—your appointment—”
“I’m not made of glass.” She pats the chair beside her with a faux-impatient flap of her hand. “I’ve done this dance. Sit when you have to. Pace when you must. But don’t you let that boy think he’s alone.”
I sink, because whatever pride I had doesn’t matter, and whatever ritual she’s in the middle of doesn’t scare me as much as standing still does.
Time turns strange in hospitals when you’re waiting. The lights hum. The monitors speak their secret beeps. The whole place smells like lemon and sterility and the ghost of coffee. I pace. I sit. I stand again. Riley stays close—fielding calls, touching my elbow once, bringing a bottle of water I don’t drink.
“He’s tough,” she says, steady. “I’m so sorry this happened at school.”
I nod. Words feel dangerous.
At some point, Melissa reappears at the edge of the curtain, paler, scarf askew, but standing. “Don’t look at me like that. I asked for a pause to use the ladies’ and just didn’t unpause for a minute.” She lowers herself carefully into the chair beside me. “Do not tell Nora.”
“Yes, ma—” I catch myself. “Yes.”
She studies me with those amber eyes. “How long?”
“Two years,” I say, because the question’s there even if she hasn’t asked. “Car crash. Miami… got too loud after. We needed… quiet.”
“Mm.” She grimaces in a way that isn’t pain so much as empathy. “And the quiet chased you here.”
“Maybe I chased it.” I rub a hand over my face. “Brick’s the one who kept me upright. I expected a meltdown. Acting out. Instead, he just… stayed. Steady.”
“They do that, the good ones.” Melissa’s mouth tucks at one corner. “And then they expect us to keep up.”
“Trying.”
“You’re doing better than you think,” she says, and the certainty in it is a warm blanket thrown over a shaking dog.
Something in me cracks open. “If anything happens to him—”
“He’s coming back to you,” she says, iron and prayer laced together. “Believe it.”
I do, because I have to, and because when a woman who stares down chemo like a grizzly tells you to have faith, you borrow hers.
Riley slips back in, breathless but smiling. “They’re setting his leg. Mild concussion. He’s awake, asking if he still has to take the math quiz tomorrow.”
The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched and hugged at the same time. My knees go loose. I sit hard and laugh once, helpless and wet-eyed.
“See?” Melissa says, like she’s just won a bet with God.
They let me in when the room stops being a flurry. Brick’s propped up on pillows, skin pale as paper, head wrapped, right leg in a temporary cast, and somehow he still looks like a mischievous kid who will ask for fries on the way home.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, voice gone soft without permission.
His eyes find me and crinkle. “Hey, Dad.”
I take his hand. It’s warm. Mine is shaking.
“You didn’t… turn the siren on… when you came, right?” he mumbles.
I choke on a laugh. “Not this time.”
He squeezes my fingers. “Good. That’d be… embarrassing.”
