Page 104 of Broken Bridges

will text you once I get results.

But my brother never listened. He rushed into my bay in the emergency department thirty minutes later...by himself. My heart twanged. I’d thought Lewis would’ve insisted on coming.

“Hey, Tee.” He ran to my bedside, clutched my hand, and kissed my forehead. “What have you done to yourself?”

“I had to run on set. My ankle snapped.” It throbbed, just to remind me of that fact. I glanced at the curtain’s edge, hoping Lewis would appear. “Did any of the others come?”

“No. They’re tied up in tour meetings. They wouldn’t get into emergency anyway. They’re not family or next-of-kin or any of that crap.”

Valid point. My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. I should add the rest of the band members’ contact details to my medical insurance. The guys were my family.

“Have you got the results yet?” Cole pulled up a chair close to my bed, the legs scraping across the floor.

“No.” Over waiting, I slumped deeper into the pillow. The painkillers fuzzed my head. “I’m still waiting for the doctor. I told you not to come.”

“That wasn’t an option.”

God, I loved my brother. Loved that he cared.

Fifteen minutes later, the doctor arrived. I raised an eyebrow. In my druggy haze, I could have sworn he was Tom Hanks’ twin.

“Morning Tia. I’m Dr. Carlton.” Shit! He even sounded like Tom. “How are you feeling?”

“Keep the drugs coming and I’ll keep feeling awesome.”

Chuckling, he pulled my x-rays out of the packet and held up the one of my ankle. The black and grey film shimmered in the fluorescent light. “You’ve had a bad bust up, haven’t you?”

That was an understatement. “Don’t sugarcoat the news, doc. Is anything broken?”

He continued to examine my x-ray as if totally intrigued by all the plates and pins holding my bones together. “The bones? No. Your knee is fine. Your ankle is just sprained.”

The air shot from my lungs. I clutched Cole’s hand and squeezed it. My ankle wasn’t broken. Oh, thank fucking Christ.

Cole rubbed my arm. “That’s great news.”

But the doctor still eyed my x-ray. A groove formed between his brows, growing deeper and deeper by the second. I clutched at the blanket and twisted it into a knot on my lap. “Is there a but?”

“Yes. A big but.” Holding the x-ray higher, he pointed to two pins in my ankle. “These pins in your talus and calcaneus concern me. Do you get a lot of pain when you walk? Continual swelling?”

“All the time. Every day.”

He lowered the x-ray and turned to me. “They could’ve been positioned better. If redone, it could alleviate some, if not all, the pain you’re experiencing.”

More surgery? No. No. NO! But no pain? Whoa. “Would that involve months of non-weight-bearing bed rest again?”

“Yes.” He stuffed the film back into the envelope. “Eight to twelve weeks.”

“Shit.” The blood drained from Cole’s face. “That long?”

I twisted my head on the pillow. “I was out of action for four months when I broke half my leg, then had three months of leg braces, and crutches, and I still have physical therapy every week. Eight weeks is nothing.” But it was. It was a lifetime. It had taken me twelve months to heal this much—the idea of going back and starting again was too hard to comprehend.

Cole rubbed my shoulder. “So sorry, sis. I hate seeing you hurt. If you want to get it redone, you won’t have to recover alone. I’m here for you.”

“Thanks. But that won’t be necessary. I’m tough.” But I wasn’t. Not right then.

“More surgery is only a recommendation, but I honestly believe it would help,” Dr. Carlton said. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon. Legs and ankles are my specialty. You don’t have to decide today, but in the future, if you want to discuss options, come see me at my practice.” He handed me a card. “For now, I’ll get one of the nurses to strap your ankle. Take it easy for a few days, keep your foot elevated, iced and rested. The swelling and bruising should disappear in a week or so.”

“Thank you.” Relief flooded through my veins. But my head ached. More surgery? More recovery? Did I want to go through that again? I struggled every day. I’d never be one hundred percent. But was the possibility of less pain and improvement worth going under the knife for? Crap. It was something I’d have to seriously consider. Just not then. Not in my drug-induced state. I wanted to go home.

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