Chapter 35
thirty-five
. . .
Jake
The light is too bright.
That’s the first thing I notice. White and sharp, stabbing through my eyelids even before I open them. Then sound—steady beeping, the hum of machines, voices somewhere nearby.
My head feels like it’s been split open.
I force my eyes open, and the hospital room comes into focus slowly. White ceiling tiles. An IV line running into my left arm. My right wrist is in a cast. I lift my good hand slowly, fingers finding the thick bandage wrapped around my head. The pressure there is tender, aching.
“Jake?”
Everything hurts so I turn my head slowly, and see my mom leaning over me. Her face is pale, eyes red like she’s been crying.
“Mom,” I croak. Or try to. The sound that comes out is barely audible, more breath than word. My throat is sandpaper, my mouth so dry my tongue feels stuck.
“Oh thank God.” She’s grabbing my hand, squeezing it too tight. “You’re awake. You’re finally awake.”
“Water,” I manage, the word rasping out.
Mom’s already reaching for the pitcher on the bedside table, pouring water into a plastic cup with a straw. She brings it to my lips carefully, supporting my head with her other hand.
“Small sips,” she warns.
The water is cool, soothing, the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I take two careful sips before she pulls it away.
“How long—” My voice is still rough, quiet, but at least the words are forming now.
“Three days.” Another voice. I shift my gaze and see Wyatt standing on the other side of the bed. He looks like shit—unshaven, wearing rumpled clothes, dark circles under his eyes. “You’ve been out for three days, man.”
Three days. I try to process that, but can’t quite wrap my head around it.
“What happened?”
“You went for a run,” Mom says, her voice shaking. “Slipped on ice. Hit your head pretty badly. You had swelling in your brain, so they put you in a medically induced coma to let it go down.”
The memories come back in fragments. The path. The cold. Thinking about Natalie. About the proposal. Then falling.
“Is Natalie okay?” The words come out urgent, panicked. “The baby—did I miss anything? Is she—”
“They’re fine,” Wyatt says quickly. “They’re both fine. Nat’s okay, the baby’s okay. You didn’t miss anything.”
The relief is so intense I have to close my eyes for a second.
“Does she know? About the accident?”
“Yeah. I told her the minute I found out. I’ve been keeping her updated.” Wyatt pauses. “She’s been texting almost every hour to check on you.”
“I should call her,” I say. “Let her know I’m okay.”
“Yeah, you should.” Wyatt glances at my mom. “Except there’s a small problem.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” Mom gestures helplessly. “The paramedics couldn’t find it at the scene. We think maybe the ambulance ran over it. Or it fell in the water. Either way, it’s gone.”
“Great.” I close my eyes again. Everything hurts, and now I can’t even call Natalie to tell her I’m alive.
“Here.” Something presses into my good hand. I open my eyes to see Wyatt holding out his phone. “Use mine. I think she’d really want to hear from you.”
“She asked for space.”
“Jake.” Wyatt’s voice is firm. “Call her. Trust me on this.”
Mom’s already moving toward the door. “We’ll give you some privacy.”
They step out into the hallway, and I’m alone with Wyatt’s phone in my hand.
I pull up the video call app and see Natalie’s number in his recent contacts, evidence of all the updates he’s been giving her. I hit call before I can overthink it.
It rings once. Twice.
Then her face fills the screen.
She’s in her living room, I think. But I barely register the background because all I can see is her. Hair pulled back in a messy bun and puffy eyes with no makeup. Her eyes go wide when she sees me.
“Jake,” she breathes.
And then she’s crying.
“Hey.” The word comes out slower than I intend, quieter. My head throbs with each syllable. “Don’t cry. I’m okay.”
My eyes wince against the pain, and I have to pause, gather strength before continuing.
“I’m fine,” I add, though even I can hear how unconvincing it sounds. My voice is barely above a whisper, still scratchy from days of disuse.
“You’re awake.” Tears are streaming down her face. “Oh my God, you’re awake.”
“Yeah.” I close my eyes for a second, the light from the phone screen making my head pound harder. “I’m awake. And I’m okay, I promise.” Another pause to breathe through the pain. “Please don’t cry, Nat.”
“I can’t—I can’t stop. I was so scared. I thought—” She can’t finish the sentence. “Jake, I love you.”
The words hit me like a freight train. “What?”
“I love you. I’m so in love with you and I was so stupid on Valentine’s Day.
I panicked and I ran and I’ve been miserable ever since and then Wyatt told me about the accident and I couldn’t get to you and I thought I might never get to tell you—” She’s talking fast, the words tumbling over each other.
“I love you. I want to marry you. I want to move in with you. I want everything you were asking for. I want us to be a family, a real family, and I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it but I love you so much—”
“Nat, breathe.”
She takes a shaky breath, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand.
“I love you too,” I say, and my voice cracks. “God, I love you so much. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I need you to listen to the doctors,” she says, her voice fierce despite the tears. “I need you to stay as long as they tell you to. Do not play superhero. Do not risk your recovery.”
“Nat—”
“I mean it, Jake. I want you back here whole and healthy, not because you pushed yourself too hard to get to me.” She wipes her eyes. “Promise me you’ll do what they say. Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“I promise,” I say quietly. “But I’m coming home as soon as they clear me. Not a day longer than necessary.”
“That’s all I’m asking.” She smiles through her tears. “Just get better. We’ll be here waiting when you’re ready.”
“Okay.”
Mom and Wyatt are already back in the room, having heard the whole conversation. Mom’s eyes are wet, and even Wyatt looks a little choked up.
“The doctors said at least another day, maybe two,” Mom says gently. “They want to monitor you, make sure the swelling doesn’t come back.”
I look back at the phone, at Natalie’s face on the screen. She’s still crying, but she’s smiling now too.
“I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I tell her. “One or two more days and then I’m on the first flight home.”
“Okay.” She wipes her eyes again. “Okay. I’ll be waiting.”
“Nat?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“It’s clear. I love you too.” She laughs through her tears. “You should rest,” she says finally. “Let them take care of you.”
After a few more updates, I end the call and hand the phone to Wyatt, as my mom grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.
“Two days,” I say. “That’s it. After that, I’m out of here whether they like it or not.”
Mom gives me that look that says she’s not going to let me do anything stupid, but she’s also not going to argue right now. “Two days,” she agrees. “And then we get you home to your girls.”
My girls. Natalie and our daughter.
I lie back against the pillows, ignoring the pain in my head and my wrist, and let myself feel it. The happiness, the relief, the overwhelming certainty that everything’s going to be okay.