Page 171 of Broken Saint

I guess I can’t really blame him for being out of sorts that first night; he’d probably just watched his eldest son almost lose his life on the field on national TV. I hate that Colt is going to spend the rest of his life now reliving that awful moment. It should be forgotten, be put behind him, but I fear it never will be. But evenstill, the way Dalton spoke to me isn’t something I’m likely to forget.

West went home with his dad last night. It’s the first time he’s agreed to leave. He needs to go back to Chicago, but he’s refusing at this point.

Colt is improving. The doctors seem really pleased with his progress thus far, but until he’s breathing on his own, until we can look into his eyes again and hear his voice, I don’t think either of us will believe it.

We’re still too consumed by fear to allow ourselves to hope for anything.

I look up when there is a soft knock on the door, and a few seconds later, one of Colt’s nurses slips into the room.

“Good morning,” she says with a bright smile. “How’s our favorite patient?”

“No change as far as I can tell,” I say sadly.

“Ella,” she chastises lightly as she picks up the board at the end of Colt’s bed and studies the stats on it. “I know it can be disheartening not to see progress, but I promise you, your man is healing nicely.”

“I know. I trust you, I do. I just?—”

“Want to see proof,” she finishes for me. “Once the doctors do their rounds today, we’re going to discuss reducing his sedation, see how he deals with that.”

My heart jumps into my throat and I bolt up in the chair.

“You’re going to wake him up?” I ask.

“Don’t get too excited; this isn’t going to be a fast process. It could still be days until he’s conscious. He might not be ready,” she warns.

I deflate again.

“When he does wake up, he’s going to need you, though,” she says, giving me a familiar glare when she looks up from the clipboard.

“I know,” I whisper, my words barely audible.

“You need to take a few hours out. Go and eat a proper meal. Have a shower. Breathe some air that doesn’t smell like hospital.” A small frown creases her brows as she silently begs me to do what everyone has spent the last two days trying to convince me of.

“I can’t. I can’t leave him.”

“His brother will be here. All your friends, too. He’ll be well looked after, I promise. Something tells me that he won’t be happy when he wakes up and discovers you’re not taking care of yourself.” She lifts a brow. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Last night,” I say, glancing at the empty tub of Hershey bars.

“Chocolate isn’t a meal, Ella.”

No, it isn’t.

It isn’t anything when you purge it afterward.

Shame rolls through me. I should be stronger than this.

But I’m not.

“I’ll think about it,” I lie, and from the look she gives me, she knows it too.

I curl myself up in a ball and silently watch her as she does what she needs to do and excuses herself to visit another patient.

I get another two hours alone, lost in my own thoughts before West appears.

From the moment he steps into the room, it’s impossible to miss how much brighter he is from having a decent night's sleep. It makes me wince because of how bad I must look.

My last shower is a distant memory. And I have no idea when I last brushed my hair or teeth.

---