Chapter 13 Charlotte
Icounted the floor tiles eleven times before I realized what I was doing.
Forty-seven tiles from the door to the vending machine. Forty-seven from the vending machine to the window. Ninety-four tiles of beige speckled linoleum between me and knowing whether Miles was alive or dead.
"Ms. Huston?"
My head snapped up. A doctor stood in the doorway, still in surgical scrubs. There were rust-colored stains on the fabric, faded, almost washed out, but unmistakable. Blood. Miles's blood.
"Yes." I was on my feet before I consciously decided to stand. "I'm Charlotte Huston. I'm—" The word caught in my throat. What was I? His girlfriend? His emergency contact? The woman who'd been falling in love with him for the past month, or maybe for the past fifteen years? "I'm family."
The doctor nodded, gesturing to the chairs. "Please, sit. I'm Dr. Okonkwo. I performed Miles's surgery."
I sat. The vinyl cushion sighed beneath me.
"Can you tell me what happened?" He pulled out a small notepad. "In your own words."
"Pedestrian versus vehicle." My voice came out flat, clinical.
The nurse in me took over because Charlotte couldn't handle this.
"River path at Maple Street. The driver ran the stop sign.
He was…" Smiling. He was turning back to smile at me.
"He was struck on his right side. Lost consciousness immediately.
GCS around seven at the scene, maybe lower by the time EMS arrived. "
"You were with him?"
"I'm an ER nurse at Riverside General." I swallowed hard. "I stabilized his head and neck. Kept pressure on the…" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat and forced myself to continue. "On the bleeding. Until the paramedics took over."
Dr. Okonkwo made a note, then looked up. "Ms. Huston, Miles survived the surgery."
I paused, couldn’t speak. My hand flew to my mouth, catching the sob that escaped. Survived. He survived.
"He's alive?" My voice came out strangled.
"He is." The doctor's face softened slightly. "It was touch and go for a while. We lost him on the table; his heart stopped for nearly two minutes. But we got him back."
Two minutes. Two minutes where he was gone. Two minutes where the man I loved, and saw our future together, was not here.
"The injuries were significant," he continued. "Subdural hematoma—"
"Bleeding between the brain and skull," I said it automatically. I'd seen a dozen subdural cases. I knew the drill. What I didn't know was how to apply that clinical knowledge to the man I loved.
"Exactly. We relieved the pressure and stopped the bleeding. He also had splenic trauma. We managed that without removing the organ. His right humerus is fractured in two places, now set and cast." He paused. "His vitals have stabilized. He's breathing on his own."
Relief washed through me, so intense it was almost painful. Breathing on his own. No ventilator. That was good. That was better than I'd dared to hope.
"But I need to be honest with you about the road ahead."
And there it was. The pivot. The moment when good news became complicated news.
"His chart indicates early-onset Parkinson's disease," Dr. Okonkwo said.
I nodded. "Diagnosed five years ago. Carbidopa-levodopa, well-managed until…" Until a car ran a stop sign, and I couldn't warn him in time.
"Head trauma and Parkinson's don't play well together." His voice was gentle but unflinching. "The shock to his central nervous system could accelerate his symptoms. We won't know the full extent until he wakes up."
"When will that be?"
"That's the other thing." He set down his notepad. "There's been some swelling. It's not uncommon with this kind of trauma, but combined with his pre-existing condition... we're looking at potential complications. Motor function. Memory. Cognition."
Memory. Not that please. Miles was already terrified of forgetting, of looking at me someday with blank, unrecognizing eyes. Of becoming like his father in that final, terrible year.
"You're saying he might not remember me."
"I'm saying we don't know yet." Dr. Okonkwo met my gaze steadily. "The brain is remarkably resilient. But I want you to be prepared for possibilities."
I thought of this morning. The way he'd hummed off-key while making coffee, some song from the nineties he insisted was a classic.
The focused furrow between his brows as he concentrated on not burning the eggs.
The way he'd looked at me over the kitchen counter like I was what he’d been looking for his whole life.
What if he woke up and all of that was gone?
"Can I see him?"
"He's in the Surgical ICU. Still heavily sedated." Dr. Okonkwo hesitated. "Visiting is restricted, but—"
"I'm not leaving." The words came out stronger than I expected. "I'll sleep in this chair. I'll stay out of the way. But when he wakes up, I'm going to be here." I held his gaze. "He needs to know he's not alone."
Something shifted in the doctor's expression. Understanding, maybe.
"I'll let the nurses know," he said quietly. "They'll come get you if anything changes."
"Thank you."
He left, and the silence rushed back in, thick and suffocating. The muted TV flickered in the corner, some cooking show, a woman smiling as she drizzled something over a cake. The normalcy of it felt obscene.
I pulled out my phone and called Beth.
She answered on the second ring. "Charlie? What's wrong?"
"Miles was in an accident." My voice cracked on his name. "A car hit him. He's out of surgery, but—"
"Where are you?"
"Riverside General. Surgical waiting room."
"Fifteen minutes. Don't move."
The line went dead. I stared at the phone, then at the empty room, then at the forty-seven tiles between me and the door.
What if I never heard him laugh again?
The thought ambushed me. Not the vague fear of losing him, but the precise, unbearable loss of that sound. The low rumble in his voice when something surprised him. The way it built slowly, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to find things funny until he couldn't help himself.
What if I never saw his warm gaze again?
He did that constantly, and was the only one who I felt gazed into my soul every time our eyes met.
What if I never got to kiss him in our kitchen again, tasting flour and coffee and whatever disaster we'd attempted to cook together?
What if I never got to tell him that I'd started thinking of it as our kitchen?
"Charlie."
Beth burst through the door, hair wild, face pale with worry. She crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into her arms.
I broke.
The tears I'd been holding back flooded out, ugly, gasping sobs that shook my whole body. I cried. For the two minutes, his heart had stopped. For every moment we might never have.
"I've got you," Beth murmured, holding me tight. "I've got you."
When the storm finally subsided, she pulled back, hands on my shoulders. "Tell me."
"He was hit by a car." I wiped my face with shaking hands. "We were running by the river. He turned back to tease me about being slow, and he was smiling, Beth, he was so happy, and then…" A fresh wave of tears threatened. "I couldn't warn him in time."
"This isn't your fault."
"I suggested the run. I picked the route. If I'd just let him stay home—"
"Charlie." Beth's grip tightened. "Remember what you said after Drew left? That maybe if you'd been different, wanted different things, been enough—"
"That's not the same."
"It's exactly the same." Her voice was fierce. "Bad things happening to people you love is not evidence that you're cursed. That driver ran a stop sign. Not you."
"But I could have—"
"Could have what? Predicted the future? Tackled him out of the way?" She shook her head. "You're a nurse, not a superhero. You did everything right. You stabilized him. You kept him alive until help came. That's not guilt, Charlie. That's love."
I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to.
"The doctor said the head trauma might affect his memory." The words came out small, terrified. "He might wake up and not remember the last few months. Maybe won’t remember us."
Beth was quiet for a moment. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then I've lost him." My voice broke. "Everything we've built, the cooking, the runs, the way he looks at me like I'm worth fighting for, all of it, just gone."
"Or," Beth said slowly, "you help him remember. You tell him your story again. You show him why he fell in love with you the first time." She squeezed my hands. "Charlie, that man loved you even after being away for fifteen years. You think a little memory loss is going to stop him?"
A watery laugh escaped me. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's going to be hell." Beth's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "But you love him. And he loves you. And love isn't just the sweet and easy moments. It's this. It's sitting in this awful room under these terrible lights, refusing to leave."
"What if it's not enough?"
"What if it is?" She pulled me into another hug. "You won't know unless you stay."
She was right. I knew she was right. But the fear was clawing at me, coiling around my chest, whispering that I'd already lost him, that the man who wakes up might wear his face but have none of his memories.
And yet.
I closed my eyes and let myself remember this morning. The golden light through the kitchen window. The way he'd complained about his physical therapy exercises while doing them anyway, because I'd asked him to. The way he steadied himself as much as he could for simply wiping flour off my nose.
"I want more of that," I whispered.
"What?"
"Mornings. Burnt toast. Arguments about whose turn it is to wash dishes." I opened my eyes. "I want fifty years of ordinary days with him. And I'm terrified I won't get any of it."
Beth was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "That's not fear talking, Charlie. That's love."
Maybe it was both. Maybe love and fear were two sides of the same coin; you couldn't have one without the other.
Miles had tried to protect me from this, tried to push me away so I'd never have to sit in this waiting room with my heart in pieces.
But I was here anyway. Because loving someone meant accepting the risk of losing them.
It meant choosing them anyway.
I stood up, my legs steadier than I expected. "I need coffee."
"I'll get it." Beth was already moving toward the vending machine.
"Beth." She turned as I spoke. "Thank you. For being here."
"Where else would I be?" She smiled, tired, sad, and real. "You're my person. Your crisis is my crisis."
While she wrestled with the vending machine, I walked to the window. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Beautiful. A stark contrast to the chaos inside these walls.
Come back to me, I thought, sending it out towards the ICU, towards the room where machines were monitoring his heartbeat and strangers were fighting for his fate. I'm not done loving you yet. I'm not even close to done.
I pressed my palm against the cold glass and made him a promise he couldn't hear.
I'm going to be here when you wake up. And if you don't remember me, I'll help you remember.
I'll tell you about our oak tree, the burnt eggs, and the way you kissed me in that ridiculous kitchen.
I'll tell you everything, as many times as it takes.
Because I love you, Miles Cameron. And I don't want to give up on you.
Behind me, the waiting room door opened.
"Ms. Huston?"
I turned. A nurse stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable.
"He's awake. He's asking for you."
My heart stopped. Then started again, racing.