When can I leave?
“The hospital?”
He blinked the affirmative.
“They’re ready to discharge you as soon as your pain is controlled on oral meds. I was able to take a few days off to help once you get home.”
He cocked an eyebrow （good to know he had at least one cheeky move with functionality） and she looked away. Pam bustled back into the room and Graham’s attention shifted to the woman who had the power to reduce the throb in his jaw and the burning sensation in his leg.
“This is two milligrams of morphine. It should work pretty quickly.” She connected the syringe to his IV line. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to see how you feel.”
Pam remained in the room for a few more minutes to check his vitals and ask some questions, most of which Claire answered on his behalf.
When Pam left, his gaze caught on the clock over the door.
It was almost midnight, and Claire was still in her hospital scrubs.
Have you been here the entire time?
She nodded with a half shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I was in the ER when they brought you. It seemed best for me to be the one to stay. I know how things work around here and can make sure nothing slips through the cracks.” She rested her forearms on the edge of the bed. “Chris was here for a while, and Noah and Mia stayed until visiting hours were over. I’m sure they’ll be back tomorrow.”
Graham swallowed thickly and his heart thudded with a foreign sensation, one he usually only felt after surviving some dangerous multipitch climb he probably shouldn’t have attempted in the first place.
He shifted his gaze to the wall straight ahead, blinking the sensation away. He lifted his hand in a thumbs-up and closed his eyes, waiting for the soothing drugs to lull him to sleep.
They discharged him two days later, though his bedroom at the condo didn’t feel any less like a prison.
The drive from the hospital to the condo had been almost cruel in its brevity. Claire had let him sit outside for a half hour while she got everything settled, then demanded he go inside to rest.
His ass had been in bed for less than an hour and it was already too long. He took stock of the room with a more critical eye, previously never having spent time in here except to sleep when he was alone and…not sleep when he had a guest.
Claire had done her best to prepare it for him, probably.
And when he was a little less pissed off about the situation, for which he had no one to blame but himself, he’d thank her for her efforts, maybe.
At the moment he didn’t have it in him to be gracious.
With Noah’s help, she’d rearranged the furniture so his bed faced the TV. His medications were lined up on the dresser and she’d set out several V-neck T-shirts and elastic-waist shorts to make dressing as easy as possible. She brought in the end table from the living room so he had more surface area beside him for his laptop, drinks, and…well, not food, because his throat hurt so much all he could tolerate was liquids.
He. Was. Starving.
She’d also brought in a chair from the kitchen table and put it next to his free weights. One of his first questions to the doctor had been how he was supposed to keep fit while staying off his leg. Dr. Mackey recommended maintaining upper body activities as much as possible, and once he was out of the large cast he could do push-ups, sit-ups, and possibly even ride an exercise bike.
Graham had immediately texted Chris and asked him to bring over a bike training stand from his outdoor store so Graham could convert his mountain bike into a stationary bike. He could set it up on the porch and ride outside. Even if it was nowhere near careening down a mountain on two wheels, he’d take what he could get.
She’d moved the framed photo of Graham and his parents closer, to the bedside table. Maybe she’d thought it might make him feel less alone. He loved his parents, but all it did was fill him with guilt. His mom was no stranger to being in bed like this, and his dad, the rock of their family, slid into the role of caretaker with ease whenever she needed him. Graham hated the thought of burdening his dad with what had happened. The man had enough to think about.
His dad was terrible about checking voice mail, and Graham assumed he hadn’t gotten Noah’s message yet. If he had, Graham’s phone would have been blowing up. He would at some point, though, so Graham knew he had to do something. He sent his dad a text, taking extreme care with his words to ensure his dad didn’t get concerned enough to call. Someone else—Claire, probably—would have to talk to him, and there was no way she’d say only what Graham instructed her to.