17. Elle

SEVENTEEN

Elle

7:49 pm

Why is this time of the night so hard?

I stare at the ceiling, watching the shadows from passing cars dance across the stark white surface. The quiet settles in like a heavy blanket, amplifying every beep and hum of the machines around me.

My parents headed back to their hotel about an hour ago, and Isabella only managed a quick lunch visit today—no one else to see.

It's been over two full days now since Shep stopped in. This is the worst part of the day when the loneliness creeps in, and my mind starts to wander.

I can't help but imagine what Shep might be doing right now. Opie's probably tucked into bed by now. Is Shep sitting on that beautiful patio, nursing a beer and unwinding from his day? I wonder if he is sharing it with some sorry sap like me.

My heart aches, remembering how attentive he was at first. I think that is what makes it hurt so much now. If he'd never stopped in that first night or kept coming by, I wouldn't have let myself consider the idea of him again.

I want to text him, to reach out, but pride holds me back. If he wanted to see me, he would. Fuck him. I wouldn't talk to him right now if he tripped and fell at my feet. He is dead to me.

Once again, I'm alone, stuck in my head in this damn hospital bed. The beeping of the monitors feels like a countdown, ticking away the hours until... what? Until I'm well enough to leave? Until I can put this whole mess behind me and return to my life in Florida?

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come, but my mind keeps spinning. The what-ifs and maybes swirl around, each one more unlikely than the last. I try to focus on my breathing, on the rise and fall of my chest, anything to quiet the noise in my head.

I'm jolted from my spiraling thoughts by the sudden buzz of my phone on the rolling cart bed table. Reaching for it, I expect to see a message from a concerned co-worker checking in on me or maybe Mom texting her nightly check-in.

But when Shep's name flashes across the screen, I nearly choke on my saliva.

My heart races as I swipe to open the message.

Hey Elle, hope you're feeling better. Let me know if you need anything.

Short. Sweet. Completely impersonal.

I stare at the words, reading them over and over until they blur together. After everything we've shared this last week, after pouring his heart out to me and then ghosting, after... after our nights on his patio and then in his bedroom. This is all I get?

The fucking nerve of him.

Anger bubbles up inside me, hot and sudden. How dare he? Two days of radio silence and now this tepid check-in? It is as if he's some casual acquaintance, not the man who... Who saved my life? He toyed with my emotions and made me think there was something more between us than a casual one-night stand.

I want to throw the phone across the room. I want to scream. An indescribable, burning urge to type out a blistering response, telling him exactly where he can shove his half-hearted concern, fills my entire body.

Instead, I set the phone down, my hands shaking. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not over him. Not again.

The text sits there, unanswered, a silent accusation. A small part of me wants to ignore it completely, to show him how it feels. But another part, a treacherous, hopeful part, wants to respond, to keep that tenuous connection alive, and to fuck with him.

I close my eyes, willing the turmoil in my chest to subside. How can one little message cause so much upheaval? It's just words on a screen. It shouldn't matter this much.

But it does because it's Shep. Because for a brief, shining moment, I thought we might have a second chance. And now? Now I don't know what to think.

Thursday, July 18

6:34 am

I'm jolted awake by Dr. Hampton's cheerful voice. Blinking groggily, I squint at the clock. Do these surgeons ever sleep?

"Good morning, Elle," he says, flipping through my chart. "I've got some good news for you."

I struggle to sit up, wincing as my hand throbs. "Hit me with it, Doc."

"Your stats are amazing. The infection's practically gone." He smiles, but I sense there's a 'but' coming. "We want to keep you on high-dose antibiotics for another two weeks, just to be safe."

I nod, relieved but also impatient. "So when can I get out of here?"

"Well, we'll be removing your IV today. The antibiotics can be oral from now on." He pauses. "And I think you're well enough to restart therapy for your hand."

My heart leaps at the prospect of getting back to normal. "Great! When do we start?"

"I've put in an order to look into rehab facilities again. Unfortunately, we have to restart the clock on that front due to the setback with the infection."

My excitement deflates like a punctured balloon. "What about the rehab here? Is it back open?"

Dr. Hampton shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Can't I just do therapy back home in Florida?" I ask, desperation creeping into my voice.

"Eventually, yes. But I want to keep you close for the first couple weeks, especially considering the infection."

I slump back against the pillows, frustration bubbling up inside me. All I want is to get out of here—out of this hospital, out of Birmingham, and out of Shep's orbit. But it seems like the universe has other plans.

"I understand you're eager to leave," Dr. Hampton says gently. "But your health comes first. We'll reassess in a week or so, okay?"

I nod, not trusting myself to speak without letting loose a string of curses. As he leaves, I stare out the window, feeling trapped and more alone than ever.

As I ponder what my life has come to, the morning sunlight filters through the hospital blinds. I hear the familiar click of my mom's heels coming down the hall. She bustles in with a fresh cup of coffee and her usual determined energy.

"Morning, sweetie," she chirps, settling into the chair beside my bed. "How are you feeling today?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. "Well, I've got some news. You just missed Dr. Hampton."

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? What did he say?"

"Good news is, I'm doing great health-wise. The infection's pretty much gone." I pause, bracing for the next part. "Bad news is, I have to stay in Birmingham for at least another week, probably two weeks."

Mom's face falls slightly. "Oh, honey. I know you were hoping to get out of here soon."

I nod, frustration edging up again. "Yeah, he wants to keep me here through the critical period after surgery and the sepsis. Just to be safe."

She reaches out, squeezing my good hand. "Well, your health comes first. It makes sense, and I want to know you're in good hands."

There's a moment of silence, and I can see her gearing up to say something else.

"Your father and I have been talking," she starts, her voice gentle. "We were thinking of heading back to Jacksonville soon. Then we'll come to Gainesville to help you get settled after you're done with rehab."

I feel a strange mix of relief and sadness wash over me. On one hand, I've had more time with my parents in the past week than I've had since high school. It's been nice in its own way. But on the other hand, the thought of them leaving makes my chest tighten with anxiety.

"That... that makes sense," I manage to say. "You guys have lives to get back to. No need for all of us to be tethered to this place."

Mom squeezes my hand again. "We're here as long as you need us, Elle. But we also don't want to hover. And it sounds like you'll be pretty busy with rehab every day."

I force a smile. "I know. It's okay. It'll be good to have you guys in Gainesville when I get back."

As we sit there, I realize how bittersweet this moment is. I'm ready for some independence again, and the thought of facing the next two weeks alone in Birmingham makes my stomach churn.

A couple of light knocks on the door frame jerk my head up to attention and my brain out of my death spiral.

"Good morning! I'm Maya, the occupational therapist. Dr. Hampton asked me to come by and see you."

A young woman with a bright smile and bouncy ponytail enters the room, pushing a small cart full of equipment.

"Hi, Maya," I respond, trying to muster some enthusiasm. My mom straightens in her chair, clearly interested in what's about to happen. This will be her inaugural therapy session.

"We're going to start your hand therapy today," Maya explains. "First, let's remove this temporary cast to work on those fingers."

She approaches my bed and gently takes my injured hand. With practiced movements, she begins to unwind the gauze wrap. I wince slightly as the pressure changes.

"Sorry about that," Maya says softly. "We'll go slow."

As she works, she explains each step to my mom and me. Once the outer layer is removed, she carefully peels back the padding underneath.

First, she applies light pressure to my fingers and the back of my hand, asking if anything is painful to touch. When I tell her no, she proceeds.

"Now, we don't want to disturb the incision site," Maya cautions. "So we'll work around it."

Finally, my hand is free. I'm shocked by how swollen and discolored it looks. It wasn't this black and bruised last time.

"That's normal," Maya assures me, noticing my expression. "We'll start with some very gentle exercises to improve circulation and prevent stiffness."

She guides me through a series of small movements, encouraging me to wiggle my fingers slightly. The pain is intense, and I can barely move them at all.

"That's great, Elle," Maya encourages. "Even the tiniest movement helps."

Next, she shows me how to do some passive range of motion exercises, gently bending my fingers for me. It's uncomfortable but not as painful as trying to move them myself.

"We'll do this for about ten minutes," Maya explains. "Then we'll put the cast back on to protect the surgical site."

As we work, Maya talks about the importance of these exercises in preventing scar tissue from forming that could limit my hand's function. Despite the discomfort, I'm grateful to be doing something proactive for my recovery.

As Maya wraps up our therapy session, I hear a familiar voice from the doorway.

"How's my girl doing today?"

I look up to see my dad entering the room, his weathered face creased with a warm smile.

"Dad! Perfect timing. We just finished up my hand therapy," I say, returning his smile despite the lingering discomfort in my hand.

My mom chimes in, "Where have you been wandering off to this time, dear?"

He shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, you know me. Just getting the lay of the land."

I shake my head, amused. My dad's always been a bit of an explorer, even in unfamiliar cities. I can only imagine what corners of Birmingham he's discovered during his "wanderings."

"Dad, I'd like you to meet Maya," I say, gesturing to the therapist packing her equipment. "She's been helping me with my hand exercises."

Maya steps forward, extending her hand to my father. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Klass. Elle's been doing great with her therapy so far."

My dad enthusiastically shakes her hand. "Well, that's wonderful to hear! And please, call me Tom. Mr. Klass makes me feel ancient."

I can't help but roll my eyes at his attempt at charm. Some things never change.

As Maya excuses herself, promising to return tomorrow, I am grateful for this moment of normalcy amidst the past week's chaos. Having both my parents here, fussing over me, and making small talk with my care team almost makes me forget about the complications with Shep and the uncertainty of my recovery.

Almost.

11:17 pm

I'm lying in bed, unable to sleep despite the late hour. The TV drones on, a futile attempt to quiet the chaos in my mind. Suddenly, a soft knock at the door before it slides open.

My heart skips a beat as Shep walks in, and instantly, anger flares within me. I want to lash out, to demand where he's been and why he suddenly disappeared after confessing he wanted to explore dating. But I bite my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Hey," he says softly, his eyes searching my face. "Your TV was on, so I thought I'd stick my head in. How are you feeling?"

I keep my expression neutral, my voice flat. "Fine."

He shifts uncomfortably, clearly sensing the tension. "I'm on call tonight. I just finished surgery and noticed you were still up."

"How considerate," I reply, my tone icy.

Shep winces slightly, finally catching on to my mood. He opens his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off.

"It's late, Shep, and I'm tired. Was there something specific you needed?"

His face falls, and for a moment, I almost feel guilty. Almost. But then I remember the radio silence of the past few days, how he left me wondering and worrying after opening up old wounds.

"I... no, I guess not," he stammers, clearly taken aback by my coldness. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."

I turn my attention back to the TV, effectively dismissing him. "Well, now you've seen. Goodnight, Dr. Duncan."