FIFTEEN
OLIVIA
The ambulance races through the city, the siren wailing above us. Every bump in the road makes my stomach tighten.
Julian refuses to let go of my hand. Not for a second.
Not when the paramedics start checking his shoulder, or when they pepper him with questions.
Not even when one of them tells him he should be lying down himself.
He ignores every single one of them. His fingers remain locked with mine, his jaw tight, his eyes never leaving my face.
A female paramedic shines a light into my eyes. “Any dizziness?”
“A little.”
“Headache?”
“Yes.”
She nods and scribbles something on a chart. I glance toward Julian. A medic is examining his shoulder now. His suit jacket is gone. The sight makes my stomach twist.
“Julian.”
His eyes find mine instantly. “I’m okay.”
The lie is so obvious. “No, you’re not,” I say, knowing he’s more worried about me and the baby than about himself.
“Your shoulder is already swelling up, and you’ve got a massive bruise forming across your chest from the seatbelt,” the medic says, gently pressing on Julian’s collarbone. Julian flinches.
The man continues anyway. “It looks like a possible shoulder separation, but we won’t know for sure until the hospital takes some X-rays.”
“I’m fine,” Julian mutters.
“Sir, try to keep your arm as still as you can,” the medic says. He puts a temporary sling over his shoulder to keep it in place until we get to the hospital.
The ambulance hits another bump, and my hand immediately flies to my stomach. Julian notices. His fingers tighten around mine.
“We’re almost there,” he says. His voice is calm and even, but I can see the fear behind it. I know him too well now.
The ambulance finally slows, and moments later the doors fly open. Bright hospital lights flood inside. Everything becomes a blur of movement. Doctors, nurses, questions, machines. Hands, too many hands.
Someone wheels me down a hallway. Julian walks right beside the gurney, his arm now supported by the temporary cloth sling the paramedics slipped onto him, the other hand still holding mine.
A nurse tries to separate us, but it doesn’t work.
The look Julian gives her could freeze lava.
She wisely backs off, and I almost laugh.
Almost.
Then another wave of fear crashes through me. The thought keeps repeating in my head like a broken record. The baby. The baby. The baby.
A doctor introduces himself, but I barely hear his name. He starts asking questions. How far along am I? Have I had any bleeding? Any abdominal pain or cramping? I answer automatically, the room spinning with exhaustion, shock, and terror.
Eventually they wheel me into an examination room, and Julian follows. Nobody even attempts to stop him anymore.
The doctor studies my chart. “We’re going to do an ultrasound.”
My throat goes dry. Julian’s hand immediately finds mine again. We both just sit there in silence.
The technician arrives a few minutes later, and the silence inside the room becomes unbearable. Nobody speaks. Nobody moves. I stare at the ceiling while Julian stares at the monitor.
The gel feels freezing against my skin. Then the wand moves. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. Please, please, please.
The screen flickers. The technician focuses, adjusts, and searches. Every second feels endless.
Then she smiles. A small, beautiful smile. “There we are.”
The breath leaves my lungs. A tiny image appears on the screen, and then the room fills with a rapid heartbeat. Strong. Fast. Perfect.
Tears instantly blur my vision. Beside me, Julian freezes mid-breath.
The technician smiles again. “The baby looks absolutely fine.”
I break. The tension snaps, and a sob escapes me before I can stop it. Julian closes his eyes and lets his head drop forward. For a moment he doesn’t move, then he lifts my hand and presses his forehead against it. I can actually feel him shaking, just slightly.
The doctor reviews the monitor before turning toward us.
“No signs of trauma to the pregnancy. The baby is doing great.”
Julian finally looks up, his voice rough. “You’re sure? Everything is okay?”
“Yes,” the doctor says, his smile softening. “The baby is perfectly fine.”
The relief that hits Julian is almost physical. I watch his shoulders drop, his chest expand, and his eyes close. For the first time since the crash, he breathes. Really breathes.
“Now that we know Mom and baby are safe,” the doctor says, turning a strict eye toward Julian, “it’s your turn. A nurse is going to wheel you down to radiology for those shoulder X-rays right now. No arguments.”
With the terror faded from my chest, I squeeze Julian’s fingers. “Go. Please. I’m okay now.”
He hesitates, looking between me and the doctor, before finally letting go of my hand.
While the nurse takes him down the hall, the doctor finishes checking my vitals, goes over my concussion precautions, and gives me a cloth to wipe the freezing gel from my stomach. The quiet in the room is peaceful now, a massive weight lifted from my shoulders.
Twenty minutes later, the door pushes open and Julian walks back in. The nurse follows close behind, carrying a new, heavy-duty black medical sling and a folder of digital printouts.
The doctor looks up from his tablet.
“Perfect timing. We just got your X-ray results back from radiology. Good news is nothing is fractured or broken. You have a Grade One AC joint sprain and a pretty severe chest wall contusion from the seatbelt locking up. The ligaments are stretched and badly bruised. Let’s get you into this proper sling, and you need to keep it there for a few days, take some anti-inflammatories, and try to keep it still as much as you can. ”
Julian just nods, tuning out the medical advice because he’s staring at the ultrasound picture in his hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world.