Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
What a mess.
But more so, I feel awful that I’m the one who is here for him when someone who matters could be instead. I should try to contact someone in his life. But how?
An idea comes to mind, giving me an inkling of hope. I pull my phone out of the purse situated on my hip and call his office. “Landers Ventures.”
Looking around, I keep my voice low so no one else in the waiting room can hear, “Hi, Mr. Landers’s office, please.”
“He’s not available. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Is there anyone I can speak to?” I hate the panic in my voice. Taking a quick breath, I then whisper, “Please.”
“Unfortunately, they’re not available. I can send you to his assistant’s voicemail. She’ll forward your message to him.”
I really don’t think telling the receptionist I got her boss killed is a good idea. “I’ll call back. Thank you.” I hang up and search for his name online. Maybe I’ll find his parents or a sibling, or a girlfriend. I don’t care who, as long as I get someone who cares about him here to the hospital.
“Mrs. Landers?”
I scroll the screen, hoping to find one person. That’s all I need. Come on. There must be someone he's close to, but perhaps he’s only close to his friend on the elevator. I can’t say I’d be surprised. He’s intolerable.
And then I land on — “Mrs. Landers.” My shoulder is touched, startling me and causing me to look up. A nurse smiles at me, but it’s full of sympathy and not reassurance. “We’re still checking for injuries to his head, but your husband will need his arm reset and to stay overnight for observation. We’re going to run a few more tests to make sure we didn’t miss any internal injuries and reexamine his head around the cut he sustained. It may not sound like it, but overall, he’s very lucky.”
I stand, setting my phone on the chair I abandoned. “What is the surgery for?”
“His right arm is broken. We’ll discharge him with instructions on how to care for it. No broken ribs, surprisingly. Though I suspect he’ll be sore for the next few days, possibly up to a week. But again, we’ll send him home with instructions when he leaves.”
I sit there blinking at her as I absorb the information like I’ll need it later. This is the out I’ve needed. I’m not his wife. I’m not his girlfriend or friend, or family or anyone familiar with him in life. I’m just a girl who came to beg him not to do a dirty deed to my family. But for some reason, those words stay glued to the roof of my mouth and not a word is uttered.
She says, “Do you have any questions?”
“No.”
There’s that smile that makes me feel like I have a stake in his life. She feels sorry for me. I hate when people feel that way, but I also can’t walk away and leave him. Even if he is an asshole in real life.
She steps back and rubs her upper arms as if she’s cold. It is cold in here. I hadn’t had a chance to notice until now. She says, “We’ll let you know when he’s settled in his room after surgery and recovery, but you have time to go home if you need to. It will be at least six hours or more before you’ll be able to see him.”
When she walks out of the room, I pick up my phone and sit down again. Why am I waiting? I know why. I feel bad for him. Other than his friend, who was probably only a colleague, knowing Warner, or someone being paid to hang out with him, I might be the only person who cares about what happens to him.
Does he deserve my kindness? Not really. But will I make sure everything with his surgery and recovery goes well? Sure will.
I can despise him all I want, but he’s still a person who needs someone in his corner. And I’m the one still standing here like I belong.
CHAPTER 4
Warner
“I appreciate you repeating yourself for my benefit, Nurse,” I say, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and my eyes fully open. A fog of grogginess clouds my clearer thoughts, but my pride still wants to argue with a nurse who dropped the bombshell of the car accident and subsequent coma, a.k.a. “catching up on sleep,” as she called it. I call it being blindsided twice—first by the car, and now by my own nurse who won’t tell me the truth. “I comprehend the words. It’s how I ended up here in the hospital with a broken arm and in a coma that evades me.”
Nurse Edi eyes me over the top of her red-framed readers and then laughs. “I’ve told you twice now. You weren’t in a coma. You have a concussion from the—”