82. Rosalyn

EIGHTY-TWO

ROSALYN

The low rumble of masculine voices pulls me out of sleep.

There's a lamp on in the corner, and without turning my head, I can tell it's dark beyond the curtains.

I don't know what time it is. But it's late.

Focusing on the voices, I see Nathan talking to the doctor when my eyes adjust.

They're standing just inside the doorway, bodies angled toward me, but they're both looking down at the clipboard the doctor is holding.

Nathan is leaning in, with a look of concentration on his face, and I imagine the doctor is going over my diagnosis, or medication, with him.

It seems like that's breaking some sort of rule. Like the doctor shouldn't be sharing my information with some random man in my room.

Some random man.

If it wouldn't hurt so much to scoff, I'd do it.

The man in my room is more than my long-lost childhood friend. He's literally a famous football player.

The doctor surely recognized him .

As I watch the two talk, I think about Nathan being here. And there's only one way he'd know to come.

Presley.

I don't know how she got a hold of him, but she's the only one who even knows about the accident.

She's also the one who rode in the ambulance with me. Holding my hand and crying the whole time. Saying she owed me her life.

She doesn't owe me anything, but she's the best sort of over-the-top friend, and I appreciated her being with me.

My eyes trail down Nathan's frame. To the shoebox tucked under his arm.

My heart throbs all over again at the sight of it.

I was too stunned when I first saw it to even think about how he found them. And the times I've woken up and dozed back off since finding Nathan in my room, I've been too out of it to try and figure out what happened. But lying here, watching this man I know talk to my doctor like it's his job, I can picture it all perfectly.

Presley calls him. Tells him about the accident. Tells him to stop by my place and bring some clothes—since I'm pretty sure my pants were cut off…

And if he went to my apartment and opened my closet, he'd have thought it was a good idea to use one of my duffel bags. And just like that… shoebox.

He shouldn't have opened the box.

It's obviously personal.

But if I'm honest, if our roles were reversed, I'd have opened it.

Presley must've given him the keys to my place. But I still think about that comment Nathan made the other day—about tracking my phone—and I wonder if his tech company can break into houses.

I pull my eyes away from the box and look back toward the chairs.

Under the second one is the duffel I expect to see.

But it looks awfully full for one change of clothes.

"Miss Edwards." The doctor's voice pulls my attention back to the men.

I lift my hand. "I'm up. "

Nathan crosses to me in four strides, standing in the same spot he was kneeling when I fell asleep.

He sets the box on the chair behind him, then wraps his fingers around mine. "How're you feeling?"

"That's my line." The doctor chuckles as he comes around to the other side of my bed.

"Sore," I tell them both. "But I'd like to go home."

My experiences with hospitals haven't been great. And no matter how nice this doctor is, I don't want to stay here longer than I have to.

The doctor nods. "I was just discussing that with Mr. Waller. He assumed you'd want to leave when you woke. We're completing the discharge papers now, then you're free to leave under his care."

Under his care.

I open my mouth to ask what that means but then assume I'm getting released because now I have a ride home.

"Thanks, Doc." Nathan rubs his thumb across my wrist.

"Would you like a nurse to help you get dressed?" the doctor asks me.

I start to shake my head, then stop when I remember my horrible headache. "No, thank you." I flit my gaze to Nathan, silently asking…

"I'll help her."

The doctor nods. "I'll have pharmacy deliver the medications in about ten, then you should be good to go."

I wait until the door closes behind the doctor. "Nathan…"

He shakes his head. "We'll talk at home." Nathan lets go of my hand and turns away to grab the duffel. "We're getting you dressed first."

"Thanks for driving me," I tell him.

I want to tell him he doesn't have to, but that'd be a lie. I need someone to help me.

I thought maybe Presley was coming back to drive me home, but she had to take an Uber from here to go home—where her car is—and she must've fallen asleep.

Thankfully there aren't any parking restrictions where the van is still parked, so my battered baby will be okay for a day or two until I can figure out how to get it back to my place .

In the meantime, I'll accept the ride.

Nathan sets the open duffel on the edge of my bed. "Do you want pajamas since it's late?"

I stare at the bag.

It's full.

Like completely full of my clothes.

"Why… Why is there so much?" I ask, hardly believing my eyes.

"So you don't have to do laundry every other day." He pulls out a thin pair of navy sleep pants. "How about these?"

"They're fine. But what do you mean about laundry?"

Nathan pulls out one of my sleep tank tops. "I have a sweater in here too if you're cold. But I think the tank top would be best to avoid the scrapes on your arms."

I look down at my right arm.

I was afraid I'd need stitches, but the cuts were small enough that they were able to just use those butterfly bandages.

When the car hit me, it threw me against the back of my van.

The simultaneous collision with the corner of my van's bumper kept the car from crushing me. But my shoe snagged on a crack in the road, and the push was enough to twist my ankle. It's a grade three sprain, which apparently means lots of pain, an ankle brace, and crutches.

I tried to catch myself but just ended up scraping my arm on my own van. And the pavement. And then the side of my head cracked against the sidewalk.

So, all in all, not a miracle, but I'm still lucky it wasn't worse.

And the instructions for recovery seem pretty simple.

Do as little as possible for the next few days for my concussion. Then continue to take it easy for the next couple of weeks.

Keep my bandages dry for three days.

Keep on the crutches for up to three weeks.

The body aches and bruises should start to fade in a few days.

And then I'll be good as new.

Stress fills my body.

The instructions might be easy, but I need to work. I can't take three weeks off. And I can't run events on crutches .

"Want help sitting up?" Nathan's words are soft.

"Yes, please."

"How's your back?"

I take a moment to think about the answer, furrowing my brows as I concentrate on how my back feels. "I think it's fine."

"Alright." Nathan leans down and slides a hand under my back. "Slowly now."

With his help, I sit up, and then, with more help, I get my legs over the edge of the bed.

My ankle hurts, and with it hanging down, the extra blood flow is making it throb.

"Shirt first," Nathan tells me. Then he reaches around me in a loose hug and unties the back of the hospital gown I'm wearing.

I slide my arms out but hold the front of the gown up.

I know he's already seen my boobs, but I'm feeling about as vulnerable as I ever have, so I keep myself covered.

Nathan's fingers graze over my elbow. "Arm."

He guides one arm, then the other, through the straps, letting me hold the gown up each time. Then, when the tank top is carefully moved over my head, I drop the gown.

Nathan pulls the gown away and kneels in front of me.

The sleep pants have wide legs, so he's able to get it over my new plastic ankle brace.

He helps guide the pants up my hips as I shift side to side.

By the time my pants are on, I'm exhausted.

Still kneeling on the ground, Nathan reaches up and zips the duffel closed.

"Why did you bring so much?" I ask, looking at the bag.

"Why didn't you tell me?" We're both whispering.

When I lift my eyes to meet his, I know he's talking about the letters.

A weary sort of heaviness settles around me. "There was no point."

"No point?" He jerks back. "You don't think I'd want to know?"

"I knew you would. But all that stuff." I lift a hand to gesture at the box. "It was a long time ago."

Nathan holds my gaze. "It was hours ago. "

The pain and rage in his expression presses against my chest.

"This is why I didn't tell you." I lift my hand to his face and trace the side of his mouth. "I never wanted to make you feel like… this."