Page 122 of Threaded Lies

“He—it was, uh—”

“He might need more,” Joanie completes for the auburn-haired nurse.

“Fine. Done. Where do I go? I can donate too,” I offer as that panicked feeling claws its way up my throat. Why does he need so much blood?

“The donation station is just down the hall and to the right,” Joanie says.

“Sure. Yes. Thank you.”

I wander after that.

And wait.

I give blood. I drink coffee. I hold my mom’s hand in silence as the minutes keep ticking by.

“Rowan?” I glance over to my brother, who is staring at me.

“Hmm?”

“He’s going to be okay,” he says in that reassuring, big-brother tone, and yet there is a crack in the last word that has tears flooding my eyes that I blink away.

“I know. But … why are we doing this again? Why are we here again? It feels like Cassie all over again. Just … why again?” I ask, frustrated and angry.

“I know. Believe me, I know,” he murmurs. “There are wrongs I need to right with him.”

“Me too,” I whisper.

“There is … just so much shit I need to say.” He groans in frustration before getting up to walk the same stretch of hallway I have been pacing.

I watch him for a few minutes, missing the little boy I grew up with and wondering how we’ve grown so far apart despite being so close physically in each other’s lives.

Family is weird.

That’s all it comes down to.

My eyes grow heavy. They close. I’m not sure for how long, but when I wake up, I’m tucked up against the side of Chad. His arm is around me and his cheek is resting on the top of my head. I allow myself the grace to sink into the comfort I don’t deserve from him but that he gives me anyway.

Of course it’s him who’s here to comfort me. And doesn’t that make me feel even worse because there’s someone else I want here instead.

“It’s going to be okay, Row,” he says softly. “He’s going to be okay.”

“Rothschild?” the doctor in blue scrubs asks as he walks down the hallway, untying the top strings of his face mask so it falls to his chest. He reaches up and pulls his scrub cap off.

“How is he?” we all say in some form or another as we stand and move en masse toward him.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Massey. I’ll cut to the chase because it’s been a long night for all of us. He was in rough shape. Worse than we thought if I’m honest. There was a lot of internal damage that took us some time to find and repair and then find again. But for now, I think we have him stabilized. He’s critical but stable.”

“What does that mean?” Rhett asks, taking the lead for the family as he steps forward with his arms crossed over his chest.

“That means the next twenty-four hours are critical. What he does during those will tell us most likely how he’ll fare. At this point, I think he will pull through. That doesn’t mean there might not be any touch-and-go moments—the damage we repaired was extensive—or that we might have to go back in and do some more cleanup, but for now, I’m pleased with how well he’s responding.”

“Long-term prognosis?” Rhett asks as my mom clamps down on my hand with both of hers.

“That’s tough to say right now. We’ll know more in the coming hours.” He looks down at his surgical cap he’s worrying with his hands. “My prediction? It’ll be a long road to recovery. With his age, his previous heart issues, and the very nature of his injuries, he won’t be hopping up out of the bed and jogging home anytime soon, but I do think with time and a lot of rest that a full recovery is possible.”

“Oh, thank God,” my mom says and sags against me in relief.

“But like I said, that’s a precautionary prognosis. I can’t promise anything,” the doctor says.