Page 12 of Conflagration
Wake up, Branson.
At first, I think it’s Megan. It has to be Megan. But then I remember the divorce and the aftermath. That voice. I know it, but the pain medication must be messing with my brain because I can’t place it. Once again, that remembering problem is fucking with my life.
“Jesus, Branson. It’s not even noon yet. Do you have a drinking problem or something?”
“No, Knox. I don’t have a drinking problem. I have a remembering problem.”
I can almost see the look of pity in his eyes as I left the room, the concern that crossed between him and Cohen, but they didn’t get it. I know they thought I meant Megan. That I was trying to forget. But in reality, I really was trying to remember. The beautiful angel who swooped into that hotel bar and knocked me on my ass. The one who left my drunken ass the next morning without so much as a goodbye. The woman I’ve been trying to remember. Because of all the other memories I have, none of them live up to the night with her.
That’s the night my life truly began to shift. I might have been three sheets to the wind, but when I woke up the next day, I knew I needed to get my act together. Yeah, maybe I was getting a divorce, but with losing Megan, I had somewhat started to gain back my family. I might not have felt like I deserved it. Even to this day, it’s still a struggle to let go of the guilt of what I’ve done, but something she said to me that night stuck with me, even if I can’t remember verbatim what it was.
Please wake up. You saved me. Now I need you to wake up so it wasn’t for nothing.
And then it registers. I know that voice. I’ve heard those words. The woman from the car. The woman with the face so familiar, yet I couldn’t place her until now. The face I’ve been trying to picture for months. The face that’s been the source of all my benders. The beautiful face of the woman who once tried to save me even if she had no idea that what she was doing was trying to save me from myself.
And she came pretty damn close.
AS THE nurse wheels me down the hall, panic nearly sets in as she begins bombarding me with questions about Branson and me.
“How long have you been engaged?”
“Where did you meet?”
“When’s the wedding?”
Not long. Atlanta. We haven’t made any plans yet.
My heart races as I struggle to answer her as honestly as I can, but who am I kidding? The only honest thing I’ve said is that we met in Atlanta, and even that’s kind of a stretch. When I left him all those months ago, he was sleeping off a wicked hangover, and I’m not even sure he’d remember me unless I was standing over him with a bottle of scotch.
After what feels like an agonizingly slow trip through the hospital, she finally wheels me into the Intensive Care Unit, stopping after we enter the visiting room. She places a reassuring hand on my arm.
“I’m going to check in real quick with the nurses’ station and let them know who you are and that we’re going to peek in on your fiancé for a little bit.”
I nod, the guilt weighing on me every time she brings up my lie. It’s not until she wheels me into his room that it goes away and I’m no longer ashamed of what I’ve done. Because seeing him there, lying unconscious, hooked up to various machines, causes me to gasp, a lone tear spilling out over my eyelid and falling slowly down my cheek. Now that I’m here, I know I won’t leave his side willingly, no matter how much pretending I have to do.
Nurse Singleton squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll leave you two alone for a little while. You need anything, just press his nurses’ call button.”
I nod, whispering my appreciation, but she’s gone before I know if she heard me or not. As I wheel closer, I see that his head bandage nearly mirrors mine, but it’s twice as thick. His lip is split open, dried blood already scabbing over. Bruises mar his usually beautiful face, and when I get to his bedside, I can’t help but lift the blanket to see a thick cast on his right leg. His left arm is wrapped with bandages, and if I could look under his gown, I’m sure I’d see the cuts from the glass.
Hot tears pool in my eyes as I realize just how much he risked when he saved my life.
Taking hold of his hand, I feel relief at the warmth of it. I guess I was expecting it to feel cold, lifeless, but it’s not, and something about that fact sends a jolt of reassurance through me. I let my thumb rub over his hand, mentally pleading with him to wake up, as if somehow my brain could telepathically reach his, but it’s no use.
Minutes—hell, it could be hours—pass with no movement from him. Not even a minor twitch or tremor from his fingers that are enclosed in my hand. The only signs of life from him are the constant beeping from the monitor and the faint sounds of his breathing. Leaning in close, I allow my lips to hover over his ear, begging him, willing him, to please wake up. But he doesn’t.
Sitting back in my wheelchair, I take my time to study this man. Even with his bruises and bandages, I see how beautiful he really is. With a strong jaw and chiseled features, he’s all male and downright sexy. Something warm stirs inside me, and I push the thoughts away, feeling foolish and a bit disrespectful for thinking of him this way with the current position he’s in. But I can’t help myself, and I lean forward, allowing my fingertips to gingerly graze the outline of his jaw before moving down to trace his lips—cautious not to touch the cut there.
My gaze lifts to his closed eyes, where his long lashes are dark and thick, and I remember the first time I looked into those haunted eyes. Even more, I shudder when I remember the last, just hours ago. Eyes so expressive that they’re unnerving. The emotions that filled him were unmistakable no matter how hard he tried to mask them. Pain. Anguish. Panic. Determination. Vulnerability. Definitely vulnerability.
As I watch him lying motionless in the cold hospital bed, the night we first met—the only time we’ve met—starts to replay in my mind and I wonder how in the hell we’ve crossed paths again.
And just who exactly is this broken man who saved my life?
I know it’s only a matter of time before the nurse returns to collect me, so I give it a try one last time, asking him to wake up. Reminding him that he saved my life. And wishing I could do the same thing in return. He doesn’t answer me though, and after a few moments of holding my breath as I wait for a response, I place my hand in his again and rest my head on the bed beside him, hoping that, when he does some wake up, I’ll still be here. So he’ll know he’s not alone.
THE PAIN medication must’ve kicked in quickly because the last thing I remember is falling asleep next to Branson’s bed, and although I normally don’t dream, I saw that night that we met vividly.
Let’s be honest. I haven’t forgotten that night, and deep down, I hope that, when Branson wakes up, he hasn’t either. It might be foolish, but it feels like there’s a reason he was on the road tonight. Like it wasn’t pure coincidence but something more powerful at play. Or perhaps that’s just the wishful thinking of a dreaming woman.
