Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The days that followed were the worst kind of torture. I tried to focus on work, on everything that had kept me busy before, but it was nearly impossible.
I found myself checking my phone every so often, half-expecting a message from her, but nothing ever came. Each day without hearing from her felt like I’d truly messed things up. I tried telling myself that I was giving her the space she needed, but that didn’t stop the emptiness gnawing at me.
It was the middle of the afternoon when I got the call. I’d gone to the grocery store not long after wrapping up a video call with Mark. My dad’s number flashed on my cell phone screen and I answered, fully expecting a dinner invitation or a request that I pick up something from the store.
“Reese.” My dad’s voice cracked with obvious emotion. “Your mom’s been in an accident. She’s at MGH. I need you to get here now.”
I didn’t ask what had happened. My heart was already in my throat. It felt like the world tilted, the ground shifting beneath me. I abandoned my grocery cart in the middle of the aisle and rushed to the hospital.
I didn’t know how long I’d been sitting in the waiting room, but it felt like a lifetime.
My mind raced with a thousand scenarios—none of them good.
My mom, strong, stubborn, and fiercely independent, had always been the one to take care of everyone else.
She wasn’t supposed to be the one needing help.
Across from me, my dad sat hunched forward, his hands pressed together like he was praying, even though we weren’t the kind of family that prayed.
His jacket was still on, the zipper pulled halfway down like he hadn’t been able to decide whether to stay or go.
His eyes hadn’t left the double doors at the end of the hall since we’d arrived.
“She’ll be okay,” he said. His voice was rough, like he’d been repeating it to himself for a while before letting me hear it.
I nodded, because that’s what you do when there’s nothing else to do. You agree with the version of reality you need the most.
“She’s tough,” I said, even though my throat felt tight around the words. “You know Mom.”
The police had been the one to call my dad hours earlier.
My mom had been involved in a car accident.
The car in front of her had spun out on slick roads, and she’d swerved to miss hitting the other vehicle.
She’d struck a guardrail instead, just outside of the city.
She’d been conscious when police had pulled her from the wreck, but she’d been in a lot of pain.
Sneakers on linoleum and the sound of someone clearing their throat drew my attention elsewhere.
I stared, unbelieving, and for a second, I couldn’t say anything. My throat was tight, and the emotions I’d been holding in all day suddenly came rushing to the surface. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure.
“How-how are you here?” I managed to ask.
Dani stood a few feet away. She wore a grey sweatshirt and black joggers. Her hair was pulled back in a low, knotted bun.
She nodded in my dad’s direction. “Your dad called the practice facility. Coach pulled me aside.”
I pictured it—her mid-practice, running drills or participating in a scrimmage, before being called over with that tone that meant something was wrong.
“I told them I had to go,” she revealed. “I didn’t really wait for permission.”
“Thank you,” I managed. The words felt wildly insufficient. My voice came out rough, like I hadn’t used it in hours. “I—I didn’t think—”
I trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence without saying too much.
She shook her head a little, already moving closer. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m here,” she added, quiet as she sat down beside me. “Whatever you need.”
I let out a breath that hitched on the way out, my body giving up the fight I hadn’t realized I’d been in all day.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admitted, my voice breaking despite my best effort to keep it together. “I don’t know how to sit here and just—wait. I don’t know how to—” I exhaled sharply. “She’s always the one who takes care of everything. I don’t … I don’t know how to be the one who—”
“Hey.” Dani’s voice was gentle, but it halted the beginnings of my spiraling out. “You don’t have to figure all of that out right now.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Right now,” she repeated, a little firmer, “you just have to be here. That’s it.”
I swallowed, the tightness in my chest easing just a little.
“Your dad’s here,” she added, her gaze flicking briefly across the room before coming back to me. “You’re not doing this alone.”
She reached over and took my hand, her touch gentle but firm. Her fingers intertwined with mine, and for the first time all day, I felt some semblance of peace.
“And you’ve got me,” Dani said quietly. “We’ll get through this—together.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion, or the adrenaline finally crashing, or just the way she said it—but I believed her. And for now, that was enough.
When a doctor finally came through the double doors at the end of the hallway, it took me a second to realize he was walking toward us. My body reacted before my brain did—I was already on my feet, my dad rising along with me.
“Family of—” the doctor checked his clipboard, “—Holly Marlowe?”
“That’s my wife,” my dad said quickly. “How is she?”
“She’s stable,” he told us.
The word hit me like a release valve. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been wound until then, how close I’d been to snapping.
“She does have a fractured hip,” the doctor continued, “and we’re going to need to take her into surgery to repair it. There are some other minor contusions, but no signs of internal bleeding, which is encouraging.”
“Is she awake?” I asked.
“She was earlier,” he confirmed. “We’ve given her something for the pain, so she’s resting now. You’ll be able to see her briefly before we take her in for surgery.”
I nodded, even though my thoughts were already racing ahead—how long she’d be hospitalized, recovery timelines, physical therapy.
“Thank you,” my dad said.
The doctor gave us a small nod and retreated back down the hallway from which he’d come.
My dad sat back down. “She’s stable,” he repeated quietly, like he needed to hear it again.
I sank back into my chair, the adrenaline that had been carrying me all day finally draining out of my system. My limbs felt heavy, like they didn’t fully belong to me anymore.
Dani didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.
I felt her shift beside me before I saw it, her shoulder brushing mine. For a second, I hesitated—like I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to need that—but then I let myself lean.
Just a little at first.
And then more.
My head came to rest against her shoulder, and the second it did, something inside me gave way completely. Not in a dramatic, falling-apart kind of way. Just a quiet surrender, like I’d been holding myself together and I didn’t have to anymore.
Her arm came around me without hesitation, firm and grounding as it wrapped across my back. Her hand settled against my upper arm, her thumb brushing once, twice, steady and absentminded.
She murmured so quietly I almost missed it. “I’ve got you.”
I closed my eyes.
The waiting room noise faded into something distant—the hum of fluorescent lights, the low murmur of other families, the occasional squeak of shoes against the floor.
A few minutes passed—or maybe longer. Time had stopped making sense hours ago.
When I shifted slightly, Dani tilted her head toward me and pressed a soft kiss to my temple. It was brief, barely there, but it grounded me more than anything else had all day.
I exhaled slowly, my fingers tightening where they were still loosely wrapped around hers.
“She’s going to be okay,” she said.
This time, I believed it a little bit more.
The pre-op room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something artificially citrus. My mom, propped up in a hospital bed, looked entirely unconcerned about the scent or her somber surroundings.
“Honey,” she greeted, blinking a little too slowly as I stepped into the room, “you’re glowing. You look like an angel.”
“I’m not glowing,” I said, moving to her bedside. “You’re just very medicated.”
“Mm,” she hummed. “That could be it.”
My dad stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed and already looking like he’d aged five years since she’d gotten assigned the surgery time. “They said fifteen minutes,” he reminded no one in particular.
My mom waved a hand lazily in his direction. “Oh, relax. It’s a hip, not a heart transplant.”
“It’s still surgery,” he mumbled.
She ignored him, her gaze drifting back to me. “I’m going to need my first-floor apartment back. It’s going to be a while before I can do those stairs again.”
I blinked. “You’re evicting me?”
“Oh, hush,” she censured. “You can have your old bedroom upstairs. Or,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “you can stay with Dani.”
Heat rushed straight to my face. “Are you trying to get me to U-Haul, Mom?”
My dad choked on a laugh that he tried to turn into a cough. “Jesus.”
“I don’t know what that means,” my mom said breezily. “But I like Dani. She’s sturdy.”
“Sturdy,” I repeated weakly.
“She’d be good for you,” my mom went on, nodding to herself like she’d solved all of my problems. “You need someone who will make sure you eat vegetables.”
“I eat vegetables.”
“Only when they’re on pizza.”
“That still counts,” I countered.
My dad rubbed a hand over his face. “Your mother’s high.”
“I am not high,” she said, affronted. “Well. Maybe a little.”
A nurse poked her head into the room. “We’re just about ready for you.”
The mood in the room shifted with the reminder. I reached for my mom’s hand, careful of the IV taped to her wrist. “I love you,” I said softly.
She squeezed my fingers with a surprisingly strong grip. “Don’t get mushy on me. I’ll be fine,” she said. “It’s a new hip, not a personality transplant.”
“One can only hope,” my dad joked. He stepped closer and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
My mom turned her head just enough to catch his sleeve. “Don’t let her move all my things while I’m gone,” she stage-whispered.
“I can hear you,” I smirked.
“Good,” she shot back, eyes bright despite the medicine-induced haze. “Then consider yourself warned.”
An orderly came to collect my mom, wheeling her bed toward the door. My mom lifted her hand in a small wave, like she was heading out to the grocery store instead of into surgery.
“Tell Dani I said hello,” she called, a song in her voice.
I huffed out a laugh, even as something tight stayed lodged in my chest. “I will.”