Chapter 4 Adela
Waiting for a surgery to end is like waiting for summer in the dead of winter. Endless. Hopeless. Like you haven't seen sunshine in days.
The waiting room feels smaller every hour, like the walls are inching closer, like oxygen costs more than I can afford.
Penelope, Elena, Julian, and Ryan came before their classes started for the day.
They sat quietly for ten minutes, trying to encourage me to stay positive.
I appreciated the effort. But there's no comfort to be found here — not from friends, not from my parents, who I scared away as soon as I could.
I told them I was fine and was staying regardless.
The sun is already setting. A whole day gone. The first day of being twenty-one years old, spent in an ER waiting room, praying that Cody comes out alive.
I close my eyes and think about this time last year, when Cody was still at Puget Sound with me. He was leaning against the railing outside my dorm, the golden light catching the edges of his hair so it glowed. He had smiled at me in that way that makes the world tilt on its axis.
"Hey, birthday girl," he had said. My hair fell into my eyes, and he brushed it back, his fingers lingering just a second too long on my cheek.
I remember thinking I liked how possessive it felt.
I had shivered at the brush of skin against skin, and he had laughed, that low, quiet sound that vibrated through my chest.
The way he kissed me that morning — soft at first, then deeper when I leaned into him — plays behind my eyelids like a film, and for a second, I am back inside that golden bubble before everything went dark.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me back. A doctor steps out, clipboard in hand, eyes tired but kind. I push myself to my feet.
"Ms. Kalkaska?" he calls gently. "I'm Dr. Lane. Where's Cody's father?"
I swallow. "He had to go to the courthouse. He said I should call him with any updates. Do you want me to call him?"
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"An hour or two, maybe."
He shifts. "Once he arrives, I can give him the full update."
My gut sinks.
No.
That's bad.
"Is he dead?" I sob out before I can stop myself.
"Ms. Kalkaska, I'm only authorized to—"
"Is my boyfriend dead?"
Dr. Lane clears his throat. "No. He's okay. The surgery went well. Cody is stabilized. There's some swelling in his brain, so we've placed him in a medically induced coma for the night. We'll reassess how he responds tomorrow."
My knees threaten to buckle, and I catch myself on the arm of the chair. "He's… he's alive?"
"Yes. He's in good hands."
The door opens behind me. It’s Mr. Ravenshaw. His shoulders are hunched, his eyes red, and his trembling hands clutching his coat. The judge's composure isn't here — just raw, fatherly panic.
He asks every question at once. I can barely keep track. When he finally gets the answer he needs — alive, stable — his voice cracks open.
"Can I see him?"
"Yes," Dr. Lane says, leading the way. "Please follow me."
I catch up quickly. "Can I come too?"
Mr. Ravenshaw turns to the doctor. "Can she come with me? She's the most important person in my son's life."
Dr. Lane shakes his head gently. "One person at a time. You can see him right after."
I watch them disappear through the doorway. Maeve slides her hand into mine without asking.
"Il est vivant," she whispers. "He is alive."
I collapse against her chest, letting the tears come. Her hands move in slow circles against my back, steady, grounding. I cling to her.
"He has to be okay," I whisper. "Maeve, he has to be."
She tightens her arms. "He is. He's alive."
I lean back, looking up at her. "What if he doesn't wake up?"
"Don't talk like that." Her voice is firm but soft. "He's going to be okay."
I pull back, guilt settling over me. "You should go home and rest. You've been here too long."
Maeve shakes her head, that stubborn grin breaking through. "I am not leaving you here alone."
She disappears for a moment and returns with a warm coffee. I take it with shaky hands, letting the bitterness anchor me.
When Cody's father steps out, I follow the nurse back. My chest trembles as I enter the room.
He looks still. Very still.
I walk over and trace the lines of his face — the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the tiny imperfection on his cheek I've memorized. The touch feels hollow without him looking back at me. Tears fall freely now. But he's alive. I can hear the heartbeat monitor, which proves it.
"I love you," I whisper.
I press my forehead gently to his hand. Cold — but not like death. Just the hospital air. I smile at him through the tears.
"Come back to me, Cody. I need you."
And then I wipe my face and walk out of the room.
He's going to be okay.
The morning light slips through the blinds like it's hesitant to touch the floor. I sit beside Mr. Ravenshaw in Dr. Lane's office. The sweater Maeve brought from my house is soft against my skin, but the warmth doesn't reach the cold that's taken up residence in my chest.
Dr. Lane sits across from us, hands folded over a clipboard, professional composure doing nothing to soften what I already sense is coming.
"I'm afraid Cody isn't waking up as we had hoped," he says carefully. "The signs we're seeing are concerning."
The air turns thick in my lungs. "What… what does that mean?"
Mr. Ravenshaw leans forward, eyes wide. "What does this mean for my son?" His voice breaks on the last word, and it is devastating to hear.
"We need to wait a few more days and monitor his responses. Right now, things aren't progressing as we'd hoped. We're doing everything medically possible, but the situation is serious."
I press my fingers into my palms, letting the pressure ground me. Quiet tears slip down my cheeks. I don't try to stop them.
Dr. Lane suggests gently that we both go home. Rest. They'll call with updates the moment anything changes.
We leave the office slowly. In the hallway, Mr. Ravenshaw turns to me. "Adela, you need to go home," he says, softly but with that careful, exhausted authority he usually reserves for the courtroom.
"I'd rather stay," I admit.
He places a hand on my shoulder. "He's stable for now. Staying won't change anything for him, but it will drain you." He pauses. "Do you know where his car might be? I think he left it on campus. Could you bring it back to the house?" He holds up a key.
I open my palm, and he places it there.
Maeve appears at my side and squeezes my hand. "We'll go find it."
Mr. Ravenshaw's eyes soften. "You've been a kind girl, Adela. Thank you. Get some sleep. I'll call you the moment I hear anything."
I step forward and hug him quickly, my voice muffled against his coat. "Thank you."
Maeve drives us away from the UW Medical Center, toward campus. We check the first parking structure by the hospital, winding slowly through each level, scanning every row.
"Not here," I say.
We head north, curving along Montlake. Husky Stadium rises to our left, then falls behind us. She turns into the lots near the IMA, the large facility where students train. I have visualized my life here for so long.
"Are you okay?" Maeve asks.
She knows me too well.
"I can't pull out of my transfer," I say quietly.
We pull into E12, the main lot. It's packed. Lake Washington stretches beyond the lot in gray ripples. She drives slowly down the first row while I scan.
Then I see it, tucked in the middle of a row.
"There," I say. My hand is shaking. "That's it."
She pulls up beside it. I step out and use the key fob. It unlocks.
"Follow me?" I ask.
She nods, already texting the guys to stand down. "They weren't on their way yet."
I stand beside his car for a moment, studying it. Something tugs at the back of my mind. It was parked at that house on Nob Hill the last time I saw it. I remember the tension the night I was introduced — Cody was on edge. And I have no idea if it was because of the team.
They wouldn't touch him.
They're teammates.
They're not monsters.
I push the thought down and get in.
The leather steering wheel is cold. Cody's letterman jacket is folded neatly in the backseat.
He was so proud the day he made the UW team.
He'd slid the jacket over my shoulders, kissed my hair, and told me it looked better on me. There’s a photo wedged between the center console and the seat — him, me, and all our friends at Puget Sound, laughing somewhere sunny.
His school bag sits in the passenger seat.
Books. Notebooks. His laptop. His world, waiting to return to him.
I want to know what happened to him. I hate having no answers.
I navigate out of E12, cross the Montlake Bridge, and merge onto 520.
The floating bridge stretches across a dark Lake Washington, city lights reflecting off the water in wavering lines.
We wind east, into Bellevue — into the kind of neighborhood where houses hide behind iron gates and the driveways are long enough to lose yourself in.
I find Judge Ravenshaw's street. The gates open automatically when I pull in. His car isn't here, so he must still be out. I park Cody’s car, leave the key in the cupholder, transfer into Maeve's car, and don't look back.
"Take me home," I whisper.
The silence in the car is comfortable. I hold Cody's bag against my chest, his jacket draped over my arm, wondering whether he's woken up yet.
By the time we reach my house, exhaustion has taken everything. I hug Maeve longer than necessary, letting her steadiness soak into my bones.
"You're stronger than you think," she says quietly. "Call me if you need anything. Don't do this alone."
I watch her drive away, standing frozen in the cold air until her taillights disappear. A car pulls in just then — Julian and Penelope. It makes me smile, despite everything, to see them together.
We talk for only a few minutes. Penelope let me know that she called my professor. The midterm isn't an issue. They hug me, and then they go.
I step inside, and my house is quiet. My mother's voice carries from the living room — crisp, composed, mid-phone call. When she sees me, her tone shifts. She sets everything down and steps toward me.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
The words crumble before I can shape them. The sob escapes before I can stop it, raw and graceless. Her eyes widen. She steps forward and pulls me into her chest, and her familiar Chanel scent wraps around me, and for a moment, it's enough just to let her hold me.
"It's okay," she murmurs.
She guides me to the sofa and kneels beside me, wiping my cheeks carefully.
"Was Judge Ravenshaw there?" she asks.
"We were at the hospital together."
She nods. Her lips press into a line. "I need to tell your father. We'll prepare a statement before the news breaks." She squeezes my hand once. "I'm so sorry, Adela."
And then she's gone. Back to the phone. Back to the strategy. Just like that. I sit in the silence she left behind, feeling hollower than before she came.
I take Cody's jacket to my room. I don't shower. I don't change. I slide my arms into the sleeves and let the cedar settle around me.
I slide into his jacket and let it wrap around me. It smells like safety. Like before. I hold it tighter than I should, as if fabric could keep a person from disappearing.
I curl into my bed and let myself cry — unguarded, unafraid — until the tears run dry and exhaustion pulls me under.
When it’s evening, the news plays in the living room, and I watch Judge Ravenshaw stand before the press. Voice steady. Formal. Controlled. He says his son was injured. That the investigation will leave no stone unturned, that justice will be pursued.
Finally.
But I don't feel better.
I pick at my food. It tastes like nothing. My mother sits across from me, silverware idle in her hand.
"Your father will be home tomorrow," she says. "We'll need to be present for the Ravenshaws. Your father owes a great deal to Judge Ravenshaw — especially regarding the re-election support."
I nod.
She sighs. "I spoke with the judge. They may need a statement from you. I can drive you in the morning." A pause. "You have Cody's laptop? We'll need to hand those over to the authorities as well."
I don’t answer, not knowing if I’m ready to hand it over just yet.
When the plates are cleared, I excuse myself and go upstairs.
The door clicks shut. The room is quiet. Cedar lingers faintly from his jacket on the chair. I sit on the edge of my bed, pick up his laptop, and enter his password.
Wrong.
I go still.
I know every single one of his passwords.
I try again.
Still wrong.
I set the laptop down and breathe. Then I try a second option — one I almost forgot.
It works.
The screen opens, and I exhale. But the relief dissolves immediately. The desktop is empty. Entirely empty, except for a single, solitary file with a name that's pure gibberish. I move the cursor toward it, hesitate, and click.
The laptop shuts itself down.
The screen goes black and restarts.
I stare at it. I try again. The same file. This time, an error message pops up. I try to navigate through folders, settings, anything — all empty, all scrubbed clean, as if everything was erased and only that one thorn of a file was left behind on purpose.
I click it one more time.
A window appears.
Accept or Deny.
What the hell?
Before I can move, it disappears. Then reappears. My pulse hammers.
My phone chimes.
Unknown number.
I unlock it with shaking hands and read:
Accept the call.
My breath catches. I drop the phone onto the desk and struggle to pull air into my lungs. I stare at the laptop screen. That's when I notice the tiny light at the top –– the camera dot.
Twinkling.
My skin crawls.
Another text.
Accept the call, Adela.