Page 69 of Loving Josy
I nod, but his words do little to ease the storm inside me. Hours? Days? How am I supposed to get through this, knowing that he’s lying here like this because of me?
Beth squeezes my hand, grounding me. “Thank you, Doctor,” she says softly.
As the doctor leaves, I lean forward, resting my head on the edge of Noah’s bed. His hand is warm but lifeless in mine. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, the words choking me. “This is all my fault.”
Beth’s hand brushes my shoulder. “Josy, you have to stop blaming yourself. None of this is your fault.”
But her words can’t penetrate the guilt weighing me down. All I can do is pray that Noah will wake up soon, that he’ll forgive me, and that I’ll get the chance to tell him how much I love him.
It’s been three days, and Noah still hasn’t woken up. Every passing hour feels heavier, like a weight pressing down on my chest, making it hard to breathe. I try to stay calm for Everly’s sake, but the constant worry gnaws at me. What if he doesn’t wake up? What if this is our life now, waiting, hoping?
I haven’t left his side at all. My body aches from sitting in this chair, and sleep has been a luxury I can’t afford. Violet stopped by this morning, bringing clean clothes and a bag of my favorite snacks, though the thought of eating feels impossible. She’s been amazing, juggling both coffee shops like it’s nothing. I don’t know what I’d do without her. If it weren’t for Violet, my shops would’ve been closed indefinitely.
In the afternoons, she brings Adrian along, and his energy is like a small ray of sunshine piercing through the darkness. He’s made it his personal mission to distract me with board games and card tricks. Yesterday, he insisted we play Uno, and for a brief moment, I actually laughed when he smugly dropped a bunch of Draw Four card on me. After I did, I felt awful because Iwas laughing while Noah is still unconscious in bed. I am in this constant battle with myself. I know that I need to take it easy but a part of me is also trying to survive this pain.
Esteban and Austin visit every day, each bringing their own version of comfort. Esteban always has some wild story to share, his voice filling the sterile hospital room with laughter, even if it feels misplaced. Austin is quieter, his focus on reassuring me that Noah will pull through, though I can see the worry etched in his face.
Beth has been my rock. She’s here every morning, armed with coffee and determination. She makes sure I eat, even if it’s just a few bites, and keeps my spirits up with her unwavering positivity. She tells me stories about Noah as a child; how stubborn he was, how he always looked out for others. “He’s strong, Josy,” she says often, her hand resting on mine. “He’ll come back to us.”
All of Noah’s family has been by to visit, their love and concern filling the room in waves. His sister, Eva, has been calling nonstop from Florida. She wants to come so badly, but Beth convinced her to stay and finish her work commitments. “He wouldn’t want her to drop everything,” Beth explained, though I can hear the longing in her voice whenever she talks to Eva on the phone.
The nurse comes in now to check Noah’s vitals, and I hold my breath, watching her every move, hoping for some sign of change. But when she leaves, the room feels even quieter than before. I reach for Noah’s hand, tracing the calluses on his palm with my fingers. “You need to wake up, Noah,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Everly and I need you.Ineed you.”
The door creaks open, and I look up to see Adrian peeking in, holding a deck of cards. “Are you ready to lose again?” he asks with a grin that’s too mischievous for his age.
I wipe my face quickly and manage a small smile. “You’re on, kiddo.”
As he sets up the cards on the bedside table, I glance at Noah again, willing him to wake up and join us. I’d give anything to hear his voice, to feel his arms around me, to see him smile. But for now, all I can do is wait. And hope.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Noah
Adeep, throbbing ache pulls me from the void. My head feels like it’s being split in two, each pulse pounding louder than the last. Every inch of my body is screaming, but the pain feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. I try to open my eyes, but the light is blinding, piercing straight through my skull.
I groan—or at least I think I do. My throat feels raw, like I’ve swallowed a handful of sandpaper. The antiseptic smell hits me next, sharp and sterile, making my stomach churn. Somewhere nearby, a machine beeps steadily, its rhythm both grounding and unnerving.
Where the hell am I?
I fight against the heaviness weighing me down, forcing my eyes open in short bursts. Everything is blurry, the white walls and harsh fluorescent lights blending together in a dizzying haze. Am I dreaming?
No, this feels too real. Too loud. Too painful.
I finally manage to keep my eyes open long enough to take in my surroundings. The sterile white walls, the linoleum floor, the IV hooked to my arm. It all screams hospital.
Why am I in a hospital?
I try to move, but my legs feel like they’re made of lead, unresponsive to even the smallest command. My right arm is trapped in a cast, a dull ache radiating from it with every attempt to shift.
I don’t remember anything.
My breathing quickens, panic bubbling up in my chest. What happened to me? The last thing I remember is…
I draw a blank.
Frustration mixes with fear as I struggle to piece together even a fragment of memory. My mouth is dry, and I turn my head slightly, searching for water, for anything. The motion sends a fresh wave of pain crashing through my skull, and I hiss through clenched teeth.
The room is empty. No familiar faces, no voices to reassure me. Just the beeping machines and the faint hum of fluorescent lights.
