Amanda’s eyes creak open when we fly into operating room six, and the team gets to work prepping her for the laparotomy. Through the chaos, her golden eyes lock on mine.
And then, she bolts upright. “Greg?!”
The nurses immediately help her lie back down as she covers what I can only imagine is a pretty nasty headache with her hand.
Her left hand.
Her left hand that’s missing a small gold band it used to wear.
She grimaces as they help her down, and once she’s recovered, her eyes open into mere slits.
“Hi, Mrs. Parks,” I say with a smile, trying not to overanalyze that missing ring. Maybe it’s getting cleaned. Maybe that piece of shit husband of hers is finally upgrading her after all these years.
“What are you doing he—oohhh!”
Amanda writhes on the table, her skin ashen, eyes pinched in pain.
With the calm efficiency only years of training can provide, I prepare the Propofol for IV as one of the nurses preps the oxygen mask.
“It’s okay, everything will be alright. Just try to relax. I’m going to help with the pain,” I tell her. A nurse covers her mouth with the mask as I administer the drug through the IV.
Amanda slowly stops writhing, her eyes popping open wide and finding mine before her eyelids become heavier and heavier.
“Greg…”
Another flash of that night, of my name on her lips just like that…
“I’m here, Mrs. Parks,” I promise through the knot in my throat.
She smiles faintly, her hand reaching up for me but falling limp soon after.
“Glad to see you’re still as hot as you were at eighteen,” she mutters.
A surprised laugh bubbles out of me, and as if she realizes what she’s said, her eyes go wide. But the Propofol takes her under before she can speak, and then it’s just the soft sounds of machines whirring and nurses buzzing around the room.
One of the nurses, Whitney, smirks at me as Dr. Simmons rushes in for surgery.
“You better believe I’m getting that story out of you when this all settles down,” she says, one eyebrow arching up.
I try to smile back, try to make light of the situation, but all emotion is frozen as I take in the sight of Amanda sleeping soundly now. Her lips, as plump and bowed as I remember them, are parted slightly, stained with blood, and her bruised eyes are closed, chest swelling slowly with each new breath.
I swallow, taking her hand in mine even though I know she can’t feel it.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper.
And I don’t know if I’m trying to convince her or myself.
CHAPTER ONE
AMANDA
Everything comes in flashes.
A flash of white. A flash of a ghost from my past staring over me.
Greg Weston.
“Mrs. Parks, we’ve just completed surgery. You’re okay. I’m bringing you off the anesthesia slowly, but I’m administering morphine to help with pain while you rest. Do you understand?”
I think I nod. Or maybe groan.
They make me eat ice chips.
And then, I pass out again.
Another flash, the room dimmer now, a machine beeping somewhere in the distance. The television is on. Evening news. They make me eat ice chips again and take small sips of water.
And then I’m sleeping, dreaming, and in the dream, Greg Weston is eighteen again. He’s standing in my kitchen, staring at me the way he always did.
The way that told me he saw me.
Really saw me.
The next flash is blinding, a rush of nurses checking vitals and encouraging me to drink water while a doctor I don’t recognize explains what happened in surgery. I only catch glimpses of what he says.
Pretty banged up…
Internal bleeding…
Grade four splenic laceration…
Tied off…
Cauterized…
Likely from the seatbelt…
Going to be okay…
More tests…
On and on he drones, and I try to keep up through the fog of the drugs and the pain after being cut open, and in a major car accident, to boot. When he leaves, I drink as much of the protein shake as I can stand, and then I’m asleep again.
It goes on like this, until finally, I wake with a little more mobility, a little less fog in my head. I’m able to drink a little more of a protein shake, though my stomach is upset, and I can’t ever imagine eating solid food again in my life. The pain is enough to remind me of childbirth, even with whatever is pumping through the IV to alleviate it.
I talk to a few of the nurses, gathering more information about what happened. Apparently, I was part of a twenty-nine-car pile-up on I-4, one caused by that fog I was admiring so much.
My stomach drops as I realize I’m likely on the lucky side of those brought in, that there’s no way everyone survived something so catastrophic.
I’m half-watching The Price Is Right and half debating a nap when there’s a soft knock on the doorframe of my room.
“Hey, she’s awake,” Greg muses, the corner of his lips curling up as he makes his way inside the room.
My eyes shoot open wide, tongue as dry as sandpaper as my heart picks up its pace from a slow crawl to a steady jog.
I thought I dreamt it…
But here he is, Gregory Weston, the boy I once knew as my son’s best friend, now a man I don’t know at all.
No, not just a man.
A doctor.
My eyes travel the length of him, taking in the pistachio green scrubs that I’m certain should not be this attractive on anyone. His biceps bulge like mountains, pecs swelling against the fabric, and the pants hang on his hips in a most delicious way.
I should be ashamed. I should feel that same pang of guilt and warning that I did when I was younger and he was, too. But back then, the line was much more severe. I was married. He was my son’s friend. I was thirty-one and he was only eighteen — regardless of the fact that he acted much older than that.
But now, he’s a stranger.
A very hot, younger-than-me-but-not-the-creepy-kind-of-young stranger.
And I feel absolutely no shame ogling him.
I take my time bringing my gaze back up to meet his, finding a curious smirk on his face, his coffee-brown eyes sparkling with amusement. He still has the boyish features I remember, the goofy smile and thick head of hair. Only now, his chin is dusted with stubble, the edges of his jaw sharper, more defined.
“I thought you were a dream,” I admit softly.
Greg’s brow arches into his hairline, and he nods, pulling up one of the rolling stools and taking a seat on it next to my bed. “Heavy drugs will do that to you. Speaking of which, how are you feeling?”
“Foggy,” I admit. “Sore. Achy. But not as bad as I should, I imagine, all things considered.”
“Just means I’m doing my job right,” he says. “Although, I can’t promise you that will last once you leave here. Dr. Simmons and I will work together to prescribe you medication to take home with you, but it won’t be as strong as what’s flowing through our IV right now.”
I just shake my head, eyelids a bit heavy as I relax into the pillows, propping my head up. “Look at you,” I muse. “Doctor Weston.”
He almost blushes, grabbing the back of his neck with a shrug.