He sinks down onto the little stool by the desk and then uses his feet to roll himself over toward the bed, holding the laptop in one hand.
“Hello, Sophie,” he says, glancing down at his screen and typing a few keystrokes. “How are you feeling?”
“All right,” I say, because I’ve learned that if I just answer his damn questions, he’ll leave me alone quicker. “My ankle is still a little sore.”
“It’ll be sore for a while.” He types something else. “Do you want me to send someone over from physical therapy to help you go over some exercises?”
“Thank you. But no, I’m good.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes at him. He’s just trying to help, but he already told me it’s just a sprain and should heal up fine in a few days. Physical therapy seems like overkill.
“Just let me know,” he says, then looks up from his screen. “Has anything changed since we spoke last night? Any new symptoms or pain?”
“No.”
“Okay. That’s good. Well, your vitals are looking good,” he says, lifting the laptop a little to indicate whatever he just read on my chart. “So we’ll probably have you out of here by tomorrow morning. As long as nothing changes overnight.”
“Tomorrow morning?” I repeat, my heart leaping a little. That’s in less than twenty-four hours.
Thank fuck.
It shouldn’t affect me as much as it does, but I don’t do well with being stuck in one place or restrained. I’m ready to get out of this damn hospital where I’m wasting everyone’s time and money. I want to get back to my life, back to my art.
Can I go back to the dorms?
I’m assuming they stay open over the break so that anyone who doesn’t want to leave campus can stay. That was my original plan before my accident, since I’ve got nowhere to go for Christmas and no family to celebrate the holidays with.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Doctor Cohen asks, bringing my attention back to him.
I’m about to say no, since I see my opening to end this little visit. But instead of brushing him off, I find myself asking, “Is there anything I can do to help get my memories back?”
Doctor Cohen’s eyebrows raise a little. Instead of answering right away, he rolls the stool back and sets his laptop down on the desk, pursing his lips.
“You said they were likely to come back with time,” I say, swallowing. I don’t like the undertone of desperation in my voice. “But is there anything I can do to speed that up?”
I want to know what happened to me—not just what other people have told me happened. I trust the guys and Max, but none of them saw me fall, so even with their input, I still only have an incomplete picture of what took place. I want to know all of it, and the only way that’s gonna happen is if I remember.
“Well, there are things you can try.” Doctor Cohen steeples his fingers, tapping them against his chin. “But nothing is guaranteed. We have therapists who could help, but I don’t usually refer my patients to them unless they’ve had a more serious head injury, a more serious loss of information.” He considers me, and I’m not really sure what’s going through his head. “The brain is a complex thing, Sophie. Sometimes memories can be triggered when we least expect it. Give it some time, then come see me if you’re still worried about it.”
There’s a dismissal in his tone, one that says it’s really nothing to get worked up over. I almost feel ridiculous for asking, but why should I apologize for it? It’s my own fucking memory. I’m sure if Doctor Needs-A-New-Car over here blacked out and forgot what he did yesterday, he’d want those memories back.
“I’m really pleased with your recovery, Sophie,” he tells me. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Feel free to ask one of the nurses to page me if you have any questions for me.”
I nod, my fingers drumming against the blankets. This whole ordeal has been frustrating, and I’m getting sick of it. I just want to go home, paint my frustration away, smoke, and hope the fractured pieces of that night come crashing back into my consciousness eventually.
A few minutes ago, twenty-four hours was exciting. Now, it suddenly feels like twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes too long to wait.
Tomorrow morning, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. You’ll be out tomorrow morning. No more doctors, needles, poking, or questions.
As the doctor leaves, Declan comes strolling in, hands shoved in his pockets. My heart does a little skip in my chest at the familiar dark gaze that meets my own. A small smile at the corners of his lips as he approaches my bed.
“Hey, Soph. How you feeling?”
For some reason, the same exact question feels entirely different coming from him than it did the doctor. From Doctor Cohen, it was just routine, but from Declan… I almost feel like he actually cares.
Does he? I hate that my mind is always at war with itself, wanting to push away anything that means feeling something. Always waiting for the moment when people disappoint me or hurt me.
I shrug. “I’m… okay. I’m frustrated, but what can I do about it?”
I can’t leave this fucking bed until I’m told by the doctor that I’m allowed to, and according to good ’ol Doctor Cohen, there’s really nothing that I can do about the memory loss—even though he’s so keen to assure me it’ll come back.
Eventually.
Declan narrows his eyes. But instead of giving me empty reassurances or trying to tell me everything will be better soon, he says something that actually makes me smile.
“You wanna go smoke?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
I speak so quickly that he laughs, his full lips parting around the sound. “Thought you might.”
Smoking with Declan sounds just about perfect. I’ve missed our little joint and deep shit meetings on the stairs in various buildings around campus, and something a little normal might do me a world of good right now.
Declan’s eyes gleam warmly as he helps me out of the bed. They finally took the IV out last night, so I’m free to move around, but after not walking much for a couple days, my thighs are a little wobbly.
“You okay there?” he asks, steadying me with his hand on my forearm.
I grip him for support and give a small nod. “I’ll be good once we start walking,” I say, despite the fact that my head spins a little.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, of course.” I don’t want him to change his mind or get all protective, so I prove my words by heading toward the door.
Okay, so I’m a little slower than normal. But it’s probably to be expected after an injury like mine, then being in bed for nearly a week. As we head out of the room and down the hallways, my steps become a bit more steady, but Declan still hovers close by. My sprained ankle has been improving quickly, and I only favor that side a little as I walk.
I can feel the heat of his body when he brushes up against me, and it sends a shiver through me. Funny how that happens—the physical reaction to his heat is a delicious chill over my skin.
I like it.
When we step onto an elevator, Declan pulls a card out of his pocket and inserts it into a reader above the elevator buttons. He presses the top button, and the doors close before the elevator starts to rise. When I catch his gaze, I cock an eyebrow.