Chapter Seventeen
Lola
The hospital parking lot is practically empty by the time we arrive.
I don’t remember the drive here. One minute we were standing in Jace’s room, and the next, hospital lights emerge from the dark in front of me—bright and sterile against the black sky.
The car goes quiet, and I sit there for a moment. My fingers remain wrapped around the steering wheel. My chest feels tight, and each breath is shallow and uneven. My whole body buzzes with a strange combination of adrenaline and disbelief that refuses to go away.
He is awake.
The words still don’t seem real. They echo in my head, refusing to settle anywhere concrete. Refusing to make sense even though Jace said them twice.
He has been quiet since we left the house, silent in a way that is heavier than it should be.
His elbow rests against the door, and one hand hangs in his lap.
His gaze is fixed somewhere through the windshield at nothing in particular.
The dim light from the parking lot spills across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the dark shadows beneath his eyes.
His hair falls over his forehead, messy in a way that reminds me of how my fingers were tangled in it less than half an hour ago.
There is something guarded in the way he sits now—shoulders a little stiff, posture a little too careful—like he is already somewhere else in his head.
The silence bears down on my chest until I can no longer hold the words inside.
“What if something has changed between now and then?” My voice comes out softer than I want it to. Fragile and uncertain.
Jace’s hand slides over the console and grips mine. It’s warm and steady, firm enough to keep me from spiraling.
“They would have called if it had.” His voice is quiet but certain. That steady calm he somehow manages when everything around me is falling apart.
My fingers tighten around his, squeezing hard enough to hurt.
He’s right. They would have called.
I nod, forcing myself to breathe.
“Thank you, Jace,” I say, my voice cracking on his name. “I would never have gotten through these last two weeks without you.”
His eyes flick away from me and stare back out the windshield. He lets go of my hand.
There’s something in the space between us that wasn’t there before. Something that seems off.
You wouldn’t believe that just twenty minutes ago he was inside me, kissing me, whispering my name against my skin, holding me afterward with hands that kept touching me.
But I suppose that’s Jace Cooper—the guy who can turn off his feelings faster than flipping a light switch. The guy who handles being casual and distant better than anyone I know.
And now, something about him feels unreachable.
I don’t understand why that makes my chest ache. Why does the absence of his hand in mine suddenly seem heavier than everything else happening tonight?
Before my brain can start over analyzing it, I push the car door open and step out, the cool night air hitting my face. It clears my head just enough to remember why we’re here and what matters right now.
My dad is awake; everything else can wait.
Jace closes his door and walks around the front of the car. He falls into step beside me, tall and steady at my side as we head toward the entrance.
The hospital lights spill across the pavement, casting long shadows in front of us.
Neither of us says anything as we walk through the sliding doors together.
This place has become too familiar. Too many days spent walking through these doors, sitting next to my dad for hours while I whispered to him about trivial things that didn’t matter. The kind of normal conversations people have when they’re trying to pretend everything will be okay.
I head to the elevator.
My feet move across the polished floor, the sound of my sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. My heart pounds harder with each step, slamming against my ribs in a rhythm that makes my hands shake again.
When the elevator doors slide open, we step inside together.
The metal doors close with a gentle thud, locking us inside the small space. The numbers above the door start to climb.
One.
Two.
Three.
The ride lasts only a few seconds, but my chest gets tighter with each floor we pass. Every number that lights up brings me closer to something I’ve been waiting for and am now afraid to face.
Jace stands beside me with his hands in his jacket pockets. His shoulder is close enough to mine that I can feel the warmth emanating off him. Close enough that if I just slightly leaned to the left, I would be pressed against him.
I feel it. That quiet presence. The one that has been following me around since I’ve been coming here and without asking for anything in return.
The doors open onto the ICU floor.
My feet slow as we walk down the hallway.
Room after room goes by on either side of us, each holding someone else’s fear inside.
My dad’s room is near the end. I can see the number from here.
My steps falter, and fear suddenly grips my chest.
What if the man in that room isn’t the same dad who tucked me into bed when I was little or taught me to ride a bike in the driveway? What if the accident changed him? What if he looks at me and doesn’t recognize who I am?
I stop without meaning to.
Jace’s hand presses against the middle of my back.
“Come on, Bells,” he says, voice low and husky beside my ear. That silly nickname hits me right in the chest.
I glance up at him and notice his expression is calmer than mine. The same quiet strength he has given me sits in his eyes.
I take a breath that fails to soothe the storm inside my chest.
Jace and I walk into the room.
Dad is sitting up in bed, not fully upright but higher than he has been since this nightmare began. Pillows are stacked behind his back, and the thin hospital blanket is pulled across his legs.
Seeing him upright instead of lying there motionless hits me so hard my chest squeezes.
A nurse stands next to the monitor by the bed, adjusting something on the screen. Dr. Reeves is beside her, flipping through a chart with the calm focus doctors always seem to have when someone else’s world is spinning.
“Dad?” My voice cracks before I even reach the bed.
His head turns toward the sound. The movement feels heavier than before. Slower. One side of his face doesn’t quite match the other. The left side droops, pulling his mouth down at the corner. His eye on that side sits a little lower.
Then his eyes lock onto me.
“But... ton,” he says.
The word struggles past his lips, slurred in a way that makes my heart ache. The sounds come out wrong.
Button. That is what he is trying to say—the nickname he has called me since I was five years old, when I insisted on wearing that stupid bright yellow coat with the giant buttons down the front, and I refused to take it off for three months straight.
I rush forward before I even realize my feet are moving.
My arms wrap around him carefully, terrified I will hurt him somehow, pressing too hard or holding too tight.
He is thinner, more fragile in a way my dad has never been before.
The solid strength I’ve always associated with him now feels… breakable.
“You’re awake,” I whisper against his shoulder, my voice trembling. “You’re awake.”
His arm lifts slowly, the right one, while the left barely moves, just twitching against the blanket. His hand settles on my back, a little clumsy but still familiar. He’s still my dad, trying to comfort me, even when he’s lying in a hospital bed.
I pull back and blink away the tears to look at him.
His face looks different, but his eyes are the same—warm and kind. Still my dad, looking back at me with all the love I’ve known my whole life.
Fresh tears stream down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. They keep flowing no matter how many times I blink.
“You gave me a hell of a scare,” I say, voice shaking.
Dad’s mouth attempts to smile but only the right side responds. The left side remains still and unmoving.
“Sor… ry,” he manages. The word drags out slowly, with each syllable requiring effort.
I shake my head and squeeze his hand.
“No, you don’t have to say sorry,” I say, leaning closer to him. “You just focus on getting better. That’s your only job right now.”
Dr. Reeves clears his throat beside us, the sound drawing me back to the people in the room.
“It’s good to see you, Lola,” he says.
I swipe the back of my hand across my cheeks, trying to regain control of the tears that refuse to cooperate.
“Thank you for calling,” I say, my voice still raspy.
Dr. Reeves gives a slight nod.
“He’s responding well so far,” he explains calmly. “There’s still a long road ahead, but waking up is a very positive sign.”
A long road ahead. The words should scare the fuck out of me. Instead, they settle somewhere deep within and take root, because the road ahead means something important. It means there is still a future.
I nod slowly, my fingers gripping Dad’s hand tighter. I refuse to release it.
“His speech will improve with therapy,” Dr. Reeves continues. “Same with mobility on his left side. It’s going to take time and effort, but there’s every reason to be optimistic.”
Time. Effort. Therapy. Recovery. Words that would have terrified me yesterday. But tonight, they sound almost beautiful because each one reminds me my dad is still here, still fighting, still breathing.
My dad’s eyes drift past me toward the doorway, toward the tall figure leaning against the wall near the entrance.
Jace stands with both hands shoved into his jean pockets.
His posture looks relaxed at first glance, but I know him well enough now to see the tension in the set of his shoulders.
The way he holds himself back from everything.
Like he isn’t sure how much space of the room he is supposed to take up.
As if he is ready to disappear the second someone tells him he doesn’t belong here.