Page 96 of Riot Reunion
I ignore the cop. I ignore Robert. Launching to my feet, I barrage him with questions. “How is she? Is she okay? Did she make it?”
Still distracted by the police officer, the doctor faces me. “Yes. Presley’s okay. She made it through the surgery.”
“Oh, thank fuck. Oh my god. Shit.” I have to sit back down immediately. I’ve never known relief like this before. Never. I’m dizzy with it. Chase is alive. She made it. She’s going to be okay.
“We’re not fully out of the woods just yet. We still have to worry about post-operative infections and complications, but we’re confident that she’ll recover very well.”
I watch him, studying his expression, trying to preempt what he’ll say next. Because there’s something. He has the look of a man with bad news to deliver. “As I suspected, the damage caused by the ectopic rupture was very severe. Unfortunately, my colleagues and Ididmake the decision to remove Presley’s uterus. We never make that decision lightly, but we felt that, without fully removing the organ, Presley’s body would be incapable of healing—”
A ringing tone cuts through the static of the doctor’s words; the sound blocks everything out. I can’t…think. I can’t make sense of any of this. I have never felt this conflicted before. Joy and sorrow battle inside me; on the one hand, I’m so grateful that Chase is going to live. But on the other hand, my heart is breaking for her. For us. For a future that will look very different now…
“…so that means that shewillbe able to undergo an egg retrieval when the time comes,” the doctor is saying. “It complicates matters. Certainly, makes it a little more difficult, but the chances are still good—”
“Wait. Hold on. I…can you repeat that? What are you talking about? I’m sorry, I—I wasn’t…”
The doctor nods. “I know this is a lot to take in. Normally, when we perform a hysterectomy, we remove the ovaries at the same time. This addresses the risks associated with ovarian cancer. Typically, hysterectomies are performed on women who are a lot older than Presley, though. They might already be closer to menopause, so it makes sense to remove their whole reproductive system and start them on hormone replacement therapy. Presley’s very young, though. Very young. Leaving her ovaries intact is less of a risk for her right now and gives her a better chance at a normal life. While she might start menopause a little earlier than she would have otherwise, Presley will be able to undergo egg retrieval if and when she decides that she wants to have children. The eggs can either be fertilized or frozen, depending on what she and her partner want. She’ll obviously never be able to carry a child herself, but surrogacy is a very viable option. We felt leaving her ovaries intact would be the best for Presley’s overall mental and physical health—”
I’ve never hugged a stranger before. The doctor goes stiff in my arms, surprised by the speed with which I got up and grabbed him, but he relaxes a moment later, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
This isn’t a perfect outcome by any stretch of the imagination. In a perfect world, Chase’s birth control would never have failed, and she’d never have gotten pregnant. We’d have had time to decide whether we wanted kids when we were ready, and we’d have taken things from there. Fate didn’t deal us that hand. But at least, with this as an option, we still get to have that conversation down the line. There’s still a chance for us to have a family if we want one. It’s something.
I release my grip on the doctor, composing myself. “Is she awake? Can I see her?”
“She’s still heavily sedated from the surgery. She won’t be ready to take visitors for a couple of hours after she wakes up, either. We take things very slowly when it comes to cases like these. You should be able to see her by around one o’clock, I should think.”
Not what I want to hear, but I can accept it. If quiet and space are what Chase needs right now, then I won’t fight it. I face down the cop, scowling. “Hear that? I’d better be back here by twelve-thirty, dude. If I’m not waiting at that door the second they say it’s okay to go inside, you’re gonna have a world of hurt on your hands.”
38
ELODIE
“You’re a very lucky girl.It’s a miracle the knife didn’t cause any serious injury to the joint or your tendons. Honestly, I’m amazed. There’ll be a lot of physiotherapy in your future. Your shoulder might never be the same again, but I can’t see it affecting your day-to-day too much.”
I’ve had scans galore. Been poked and prodded by ten different people. Eventually, they decided I didn’t need surgery, cleaned up the wound, and stitched me closed. They’re going to keep me overnight, but apparently, I should be good to leave in the morning. Dr. Crawley, the woman who has been treating me, smiles softly at me over the top of the chart she’s been making notes on.
“Your throat is very bruised. It may be tough to talk or swallow for a few days, but the swelling and discoloration should go down soon. I have to say, Elodie, I’m impressed by how calm you are, given what you’ve been through. I can’t even imagine how scary that experience was.”
Calm isn’t the word I would use to describe myself right now. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Fitz straddling me, that awful, deranged look on his face. I smile back at Dr. Crawley, shrugging a shoulder. “I’m gonna need a hell of a lot of therapy. Not gonna lie. But I’ll be okay.” She really wasn’t joking about it being painful to talk; my throat feels raw as hell.
“I’mveryrelieved to hear you say that you’ll be going to therapy. A lot of assault victims refuse to go. It makes it so much harder to process the trauma they’ve experienced.”
“She’s not a victim, Dr. Crawley,” a voice says behind her. “She fought like hell for her life, and she won. She saved my life, too. She’s a badass.”
Wren Jacobi.
My poet.
My painter.
My prince.
He smiles at me softly from where he leans against the doorjamb. His dark hair falls in thick waves, curling around his ears. Dressed in blue scrubs, hands shoved into his pockets, he isimpossible. Too brooding. Too intense. Too handsome for words. My heart seizes at the sight of him.
“You saved me first,” I whisper. “If you hadn’t knocked him off of me, I’d be dead.”
The corner of his mouth lifts up in a lopsided smile. “We saved each other, then. We can tell our grandkids that in fifty years.”
“We won’t be telling them anything about this!” I croak, trying out a half-hearted laugh. “It’ll give them nightmares.”
