47. Noah - November
FORTY-SEVEN
Noah - November
WORK SONG - HOZIER
No matter where you went, hospitals always smelled the same. Like desperation, masked under layers of chemicals. As if it was trying to disguise the reality of what happened in these walls.
My fingers twitched against the edge of the waiting room chair, a restless movement I couldn’t control. Across the room, someone’s phone buzzed, the vibration cutting through the sterile silence, but I couldn’t focus on anything beyond the thought of Dorian lying on an operating table.
I’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting in this waiting room. The clock on the wall was frozen in place, its second hand moving too slowly and too fast at the same time.
My mind wrestled with the chaos John left behind—the unanswered questions, the loose ends I still couldn’t untangle. But that was a problem for another time. For now, I forced it aside.
Gracie was curled up in a chair a few feet away, her tiny frame swallowed up in one of Dotty’s sweaters. She’d fallen asleep hours ago, her head resting on Trent’s shoulder. Trent looked as exhausted as the rest of us, his face lined with worry, but he kept his arm securely around her.
Dotty sat nearby, her hands twisting together in her lap. She hadn’t said much since we got here, but every now and then, she glanced at me, her lips pressing into a thin line like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Sawyer was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his jaw set tight as he stared at nothing.
Colt and David made the trip down the moment they heard. They stood further back, speaking in low tones, though I wasn’t listening. The room was too loud from the sound of my own heartbeat.
Earlier, when the nurse came out to tell us Dorian was in surgery, everyone turned to me, their questions pressing down like a wave I wasn’t ready to face. I’d barely managed to answer. Now, the silence felt unbearable.
I got up again, pacing the length of the room. The tile was cold under my feet, even through my shoes, and the lights overhead buzzed faintly. Every step seemed like my body was dragging, my muscles heavy with fear and exhaustion.
Gracie stirred, her head lifting slightly. Her eyes blinked open, big and glassy, and she glanced around before they landed on me. “Is Daddy gonna be okay?”
My throat tightened. I crouched in front of her. “The doctors are taking care of him right now, G. He’s really strong, and they’re doing everything they can to help him.”
She nodded, but her bottom lip wobbled. “I’m scared.”
I reached out, smoothing her hair back. “Me too,” I admitted. “But we’re here for him, okay? All of us.” I motioned toward the others, who were doing their best to hold it together.
She sniffled and leaned back into Trent, who whispered something to her I couldn’t make out.
Watching him, I remembered how Dotty had fallen apart when Trent was the one in that hospital bed, how I was just as broken that day and Dorian was the one to pull me through it.
But now it was he fighting for this life.
“The James family?”
The nurse’s voice jolted me. I stood too quickly, nearly losing my balance. The entire room froze, everyone turning toward her.
“Dorian’s out of surgery.” Her words came in quick, clinical sentences. “The procedure went well. We were able to repair the damage. He’s stable, but he’s going to need time to recover. You can see him soon, but he’ll still be under the effects of anesthesia.”
I felt a rush of air leave my lungs, like I’d been holding it in this whole time. Around me, everyone seemed to exhale at once. Sawyer let out a relieved curse, and Dotty reached for Trent’s arm.
“Would you like to see him?” she asked me.
“Oh no, I can’t. Someone else should.”
“Noah, go,” David said. Everyone else nodded.
Gracie’s small voice broke through the haze. “Can I see him too?” The nurse hesitated, glancing at me.
“I’ll check on him, and as soon as he’s awake, I’ll let you know, okay?” I told her.
Her lip wobbled again, but she nodded. Trent gave me a small, encouraging nod, his hand resting on her shoulder.
The walk to Dorian’s room seemed like the longest journey of my life. The nurse led me through the maze of hallways. The same speckled white tiles from before taunting me. My palms were damp, and I kept clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to shake off the tension that wouldn’t leave me.
When she pushed open the door, I stopped in the doorway.
Dorian lay there, pale but breathing. Machines beeped softly, monitoring his vitals. His leg was propped up, wrapped in bandages, and an IV snaked from his arm. He looked so still, so unlike himself, that it made something in my heart twist painfully.
I stepped inside and sank into the chair next to his bed. For a long moment, I simply sat there, staring at him, trying to process the fact that he was here.
He was alive .
But the fear was still there. It sat there, a heavy knot in my stomach, refusing to let go.
“I’m so mad at you,” I murmured, my voice barely steady. “You told me you loved me when I wasn’t even there to say it back to your face. I’m so mad at you for doing this, but I’m so in love with you.”
The room was silent except for the machines. I wanted to take his hand, to feel some kind of connection, but I was afraid of jostling him, of doing something wrong. So, I just sat there, waiting.
Waiting for him to wake up.