hospital bed, hooked up to a couple of different machines. The ping of his heartbeat from one of them reverberates through the sterile room. The doctor is talking to me, but I can’t really focus on him, only on Dray.
I interrupt, asking, “Is he going to be okay?” My voice comes out in a wishful prayer.
“He’s taken a direct hit to the head. He’s definitely out for a couple of games, but being that he is young and in great physical shape, I think he will make a full recovery.” A nurse comes in to check his vital signs.
“What do you mean you think that he will make a full recovery?” I ask looking towards the doctor.
Turning to look at me, he says, “Many factors dictate the prognosis stemming from a head concussion. One of the major issues is how the patient takes care of themselves after the injury. Having someone to take care of him for the next few weeks is a must. He literally needs to be completely bed-ridden with nothing but absolute rest. Any activities that are physically demanding or require a lot of concentration can make his symptoms worse and slow his recovery,” he finishes as the nurse leaves the room.
I see Dray flinch, causing me to rush to his bedside, and without thinking, I reach for his large hand which swallows mine whole. He feels warm to the touch, which, finally, gives me a little reprieve in believing he isn’t going to die yet.
I hear the doctor finish behind me, “He needs peace and quiet for his recuperation. Make sure to provide that for him.”
Without missing a beat, I automatically reply, “I will,” as he leaves us.
Feeling pressure enclosing my hand, I look down to see Dray’s gripping tightly to mine. The relief that finds me is unnerving. The pressure behind my eyes is only relieved by the tears silently rolling down my cheeks and the sense that all will be alright now that I’ve seen him, which also proves only to me that I’m losing my mind. Trying to gain perspective, I gently pull my hand back to have him grip tighter to hold me in place. The doctor’s words echo in my mind about causing him no distress. With my other hand, I dry my face the best I can.
Making myself comfortable, I sit down in the chair next to his bed to watch him sleep, contemplating the change of events in my life. What can I say about Dray? He has been the bane of my existence since college, making my life a living hell. The first night we met, he commented on how Trent’s new humanitarian act must be to save the dogs of America, looking at me as he spoke to Trent, obviously meaning I was the dog. His saving grace was that Trent was actually trying to save some dogs from the local kennel before they were euthanized, so Trent didn’t know he was talking about me.
Every time he saw me, he went out of this way to degrade me somehow without Trent finding out. Then our junior year, I had finally lost my freshman fifteen and all of a sudden, the mean spiteful remarks turned into to crude sexual humor. He got off on upsetting me, and so, I tried my best to become desensitized to all that he said.
Looking at him right now, I don’t see a man who I hate with every ounce of my being. All I see is Trent’s brother, and somehow, it’s like having a small piece of Trent with me. Taking my free hand, I raise it against his forehead and stroke it down the side of his face. I’ve never really seen Dray this relaxed, and his features almost make him look boyish. It actually makes me want to climb in bed and cuddle him. Now where the hell did that come from? Cuddle Dray? I must be delirious from the day’s events.
Glancing at the door, longing for escape, I hear his hoarse voice.
“You came.”
Looking over at him, my heart flutters as those soulful brown eyes stare back at me. His face looks so young, and dare I say, beautiful? It’s almost as if he is searching for something inside of me or trying to figure out if I am real or
I interrupt, asking, “Is he going to be okay?” My voice comes out in a wishful prayer.
“He’s taken a direct hit to the head. He’s definitely out for a couple of games, but being that he is young and in great physical shape, I think he will make a full recovery.” A nurse comes in to check his vital signs.
“What do you mean you think that he will make a full recovery?” I ask looking towards the doctor.
Turning to look at me, he says, “Many factors dictate the prognosis stemming from a head concussion. One of the major issues is how the patient takes care of themselves after the injury. Having someone to take care of him for the next few weeks is a must. He literally needs to be completely bed-ridden with nothing but absolute rest. Any activities that are physically demanding or require a lot of concentration can make his symptoms worse and slow his recovery,” he finishes as the nurse leaves the room.
I see Dray flinch, causing me to rush to his bedside, and without thinking, I reach for his large hand which swallows mine whole. He feels warm to the touch, which, finally, gives me a little reprieve in believing he isn’t going to die yet.
I hear the doctor finish behind me, “He needs peace and quiet for his recuperation. Make sure to provide that for him.”
Without missing a beat, I automatically reply, “I will,” as he leaves us.
Feeling pressure enclosing my hand, I look down to see Dray’s gripping tightly to mine. The relief that finds me is unnerving. The pressure behind my eyes is only relieved by the tears silently rolling down my cheeks and the sense that all will be alright now that I’ve seen him, which also proves only to me that I’m losing my mind. Trying to gain perspective, I gently pull my hand back to have him grip tighter to hold me in place. The doctor’s words echo in my mind about causing him no distress. With my other hand, I dry my face the best I can.
Making myself comfortable, I sit down in the chair next to his bed to watch him sleep, contemplating the change of events in my life. What can I say about Dray? He has been the bane of my existence since college, making my life a living hell. The first night we met, he commented on how Trent’s new humanitarian act must be to save the dogs of America, looking at me as he spoke to Trent, obviously meaning I was the dog. His saving grace was that Trent was actually trying to save some dogs from the local kennel before they were euthanized, so Trent didn’t know he was talking about me.
Every time he saw me, he went out of this way to degrade me somehow without Trent finding out. Then our junior year, I had finally lost my freshman fifteen and all of a sudden, the mean spiteful remarks turned into to crude sexual humor. He got off on upsetting me, and so, I tried my best to become desensitized to all that he said.
Looking at him right now, I don’t see a man who I hate with every ounce of my being. All I see is Trent’s brother, and somehow, it’s like having a small piece of Trent with me. Taking my free hand, I raise it against his forehead and stroke it down the side of his face. I’ve never really seen Dray this relaxed, and his features almost make him look boyish. It actually makes me want to climb in bed and cuddle him. Now where the hell did that come from? Cuddle Dray? I must be delirious from the day’s events.
Glancing at the door, longing for escape, I hear his hoarse voice.
“You came.”
Looking over at him, my heart flutters as those soulful brown eyes stare back at me. His face looks so young, and dare I say, beautiful? It’s almost as if he is searching for something inside of me or trying to figure out if I am real or
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