A wisp of unease ate away at my relief.
Vincent hesitated. “You should talk to him when the doctors are done.” He glanced over my shoulder, and I turned to see Carina, Brooklyn, and my security escort speeding toward us.
Our escort stopped at the end of the hall when he saw I was with Vincent. My friends came up beside me and said hi to my brother, their voices muted.
Meanwhile, I stared at the closed door to Asher’s hospital room, willing it to open.
If I could only see him, I’d put my pesky worries to rest. Vincent said he was fine, so he was fine. His well-being was the most important thing, not the cause of the crash.
Still, the unease lingered until the doctor and nurse finally stepped out and gave me the all clear to see him.
“We’ll be here if you need us,” Carina said, squeezing my arm.
I nodded, my heart wobbling as I walked into the hospital suite.
I’d seen the inside of a hospital more times in the past four months than I had in years, and I was sick of it. Sick of the smell, sick of the way the nurses’ shoes squeaked against the linoleum floors, sick of the oppressive cloud of anticipatory dread that drifted through the hallways like a deathly specter.
However, any negative feelings I had toward the space vanished at the sight of Asher sitting, alive and whole, less than five feet away. Like Vincent warned, he was scratched up with cuts and bruises, but he was there.
Tears stung the backs of my eyes.
“Hi, darling.” His mouth tipped up at the corner. “I wish you would’ve called and told me you were coming first. I’m not looking my best at the moment.”
The tears spilled down my cheeks as I choked out a noise of half anger, half amusement. “Asher Donovan, now is not the time to make jokes.”
His face softened. “I know. I’m sorry.” He opened his arms. “Come here.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. I was by his side in an instant, my face pressed into his neck while he held me tight. Sobs wracked my body as the tears fell in a constant rain.
BREAKING: Asher Donovan rushed to hospital after car crash in north London.
I didn’t have proper words to describe the emotions that engulfed me when I first saw the headline. I’d never experienced such cold, visceral terror, not even when I sat in the back of a taxi and saw another car barreling toward me at sixty miles an hour.
If I died, I had the relief of oblivion. I wouldn’t experience pain or sadness; I would simply be gone.
But if someone I loved died, I’d have to live without them forever. The pain of that would eclipse anything else I’d ever felt—especially if that someone was Asher.
Because I didn’t just love him; I was in love with him. I was so in love with him that the thought of him dying made me want to die.
The realization struck me with the force of a bullet, and the sentiment was so foreign, so all-consuming, that I had no idea how to handle it.
So I let the excess emotion pour out through my eyes and throat, filling the room with the intensity of my sobs.
“Don’t cry.” Asher kissed the top of my head, his voice strained. “It’s okay, darling. I’m okay.”
“Did the doctors…can you…”
“I can still play football.” He picked up on my unfinished question. Short of death, his worst nightmare would’ve been a career-ending injury. “I have a concussion, multiple lacerations, and a sprained ankle, so I’ll have to sit out a couple of matches. They’re still waiting on some test results, but the doctor is confident I’ll be fully healed in a few weeks.”
I finally gathered enough composure to straighten and lift my head. I sniffled and swiped at my swollen eyes. I must have looked like a mess, but I didn’t care. I was beyond the point of embarrassment.
“Good. I’m glad you’re okay because I thought…there was a moment when…” My voice caught.
Asher’s eyes softened further. “I’m okay,” he repeated. “I promise.”
I nodded and wiped my cheeks again. “What happened?” I hiccupped. “Did someone hit you?”
I wished I could spend the entirety of our time hugging and kissing and ignoring the events of the night, but until I knew what caused the crash, my imagination would continue running wild.
Asher hesitated. “In a way, yes,” he said. He wasn’t smiling anymore.
The human brain hated ambiguity. It was designed to fill in the blanks, and his vague answer gave it ample room to spin wild theories.
Was he the one who hit the other car? Were its occupants lying somewhere else in the building, grievously injured?
Something thick and ugly oozed through my veins. No. I refused to doubt him. Asher was a careful driver when he wasn’t racing, and if he had harmed someone else, he would be sick over it. He wouldn’t be this calm.
Nevertheless, the mere prospect ripped open a portal in my imagination and tossed me back in time.
One second, I was in the hospital with Asher. The next, I was transported back to five years ago, when I awoke in a room very similar to this one and heard a faint murmur of voices discussing my situation.
Punctured lungs, broken ribs, shattered pelvis.
She might never dance again. Not even recreationally.
Her injuries are severe, but she’s lucky…could’ve died…
The world swung sideways as past and present blended into a nauseating stew.
