Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Hands grip my shoulders, steadying me before I completely collapse.
"Easy now. I've got you."
I blink up at a woman in scrubs—middle-aged, kind eyes, short graying hair tucked behind her ears.
"Come on, honey. Let's get you sitting down."
She guides me to a chair in the waiting area, her grip firm but gentle. I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
"Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth."
I try. Fail. Try again.
"Your friend—Julian, right? He's going to be okay."
My head snaps up. "He's alive?"
"Yes. He's stable. His left hand is broken—fractured in two places. But no head trauma, no internal bleeding. He got lucky."
Lucky. The word lands like a punch.
His hand. His beautiful, talented hand that coaxes magic from piano keys, that plays melodies I can feel in my bones.
Broken.
Because of me.
"Can I see him?"
"Soon. The doctor is setting the cast now. It'll be a couple hours."
Hours.
I nod, numb.
She squeezes my shoulder. "He'll be fine. Promise."
But I don't believe her. Not really.
Time crawls. I check my phone every thirty seconds—no new messages. I open Instagram, scroll past posts I don't register, close it. Open Candy Crush, play half a level, abandon it. My leg bounces uncontrollably.
Around me, the ER hums with muted chaos. A kid crying. A couple arguing in hushed tones. The intercom crackles overhead.
I can't focus on any of it.
All I see is Julian. His face twisted in pain. His hand—broken, mangled. Blood on his knuckles. Did he try to fight back? Did Daniel hold him down? Were there others?
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the images, but they multiply, each one more brutal than the last.
This is my fault.
If I'd never gone to that support group. If I'd just stayed away from him. If I'd been stronger, left Daniel sooner, handled this differently…
Julian would be home. Safe. Whole.
He'd be playing piano, fingers dancing across keys, lost in music.
Not here. Not hurt.
Not because of me.
The guilt claws at my chest, sharp and relentless.
I love him. God, I love him more than I thought possible.
Which is exactly why I should leave him.
Before Daniel destroys him completely.
"Liza?"
I spring from the chair so fast I nearly knock it over.
Julian stands in the doorway, his left hand wrapped in a white cast from fingertips to forearm. His right arm cradles it protectively. There's a bruise blooming along his jaw, and his bottom lip is split.
I run to him.
"Careful—" he starts, but I'm already there, throwing my arms around him, burying my face in his chest.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
His good arm wraps around me, pulling me close. "Hey. I'm okay."
"You're not okay. Look at you." My voice cracks. "This is all my fault."
"Liza, stop."
"Your hand, Julian. Your hand."
"I know."
"What if you can't play again? What if—"
"Stop." He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. They're tired, shadowed, but still impossibly kind. "This isn't your fault. You didn't do this."
"Daniel did it because of me."
"Daniel did it because he's a psycho."
"What happened? Did Daniel do this to you?"
Julian's jaw tightens. "Two men. Dressed in black, wearing masks."
My blood turns to ice. "The same ones."
"Probably."
"They just—what? Jumped you?"
"I was walking to my car after my gig. They came out of nowhere.
" He touches the bruise on his jaw gingerly.
"One held me while the other one worked me over.
They kept saying I should stay away from other people's girlfriends. That I was fucking with the wrong guy. Crushed my hand with a baseball bat.”
Rage floods through me—hot, consuming, useless. I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to find Daniel and claw his eyes out.
But instead, I just stand there, shaking.
Because that's all I can do. Shake and cry and watch the people I love get hurt.
Powerless. I'm completely powerless.
“It was just one blow,” he tells me, as if that might make me feel better. “The guy was about to go for more, but the other one had some mercy, told him it was enough. Thank god for that…”
"They targeted your hand on purpose," I whisper.
"Yeah."
"They knew."
"Yeah."
The nurse appears with discharge papers, and Julian signs with his left hand, his signature shaky and unfamiliar. I watch him struggle with the pen, and something inside me cracks.
We walk to my car in silence. He moves stiffly, cradling his ribs. I want to ask if he's hurt there, too, but I can't form the words.
"I'm driving," I say. Of course I’m driving.
I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white. The parking garage is too bright, too loud. Every shadow makes me flinch.
"I should leave you."
"What?"
"This is going to keep happening. He's not going to stop. And you're—you're everything to me, Julian. I can't watch you get hurt because of me."
"Pull over."
"What?"
"Pull. Over."
I’ve not even made it out of the parking lot yet, and I stop.
He turns to me, his dark eyes fierce. "You think I'm letting you go? After this? You think that's what I want?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"Then don't leave. Stay. Fight with me."
Tears spill down my cheeks. "I don't know how."
His good hand cups my face. "We'll figure it out. Together."
I pull back, staring at the cast. Stark white against his brown skin. Heavy. Suffocating. "How long?"
"Six weeks. Maybe eight."
Eight weeks without work. Without piano. Without the one thing that centers him.
Because of me.
I should leave him. Right here. Right now. Tell him he deserves better than this mess I've dragged him into. That I'm toxic. That everyone I touch gets hurt.
But when I open my mouth, different words spill out.
"Let’s go home."
“Sounds like a plan.”
"You’ll need someone. To help you. Cook, clean, whatever. I can do that."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
Liar. I don't want to. I need to. Because if I leave him now—broken, vulnerable—I'll never forgive myself.
He searches my face, reading something there I haven't said aloud.
"Okay."
The night air bites cold. I guide him away from my Mini Cooper, hyperaware of every wince, every careful movement. I take his good hand, the left one, lacing our fingers together. His skin is warm, solid. Real.
He is such a good person. And he deserves so much better.
But for now, he's stuck with me.