She was waiting for us outside the elevator and fell into step behind me as I rush past her toward Greg’s room.
“How long has he been awake?” I ask.
“About forty-five minutes before he called you,” she says.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“The doctors insisted on checking him over and making sure he was in good condition.”
“And?”
“He looks good. All considering. He was very eager to talk to you.”
“He doesn’t sound great,” I say. “His voice sounds really rough.”
“The ventilator often causes a little bit of temporary damage to the throat. There’s some evidence of minor throat injuries from whatever happened to him before he was found. But it’s not permanent. He should be back to normal with continued healing and practice speaking,” she tells me.
I get to the door to his room and pause. I’ve been here before. In this moment of hesitation and uncertainty before walking in. Only this time, I know what’s on the other side of the curtain. This time I know he’s awake. Hopefully, he’s gotten through the worst of it. It would seem that after spending the last few days in the room with him, it wouldn’t seem so nerve-wracking to go in, but nervousness flutters inside me. In all the time he was gone, and even more once he reappeared on my front lawn unconscious, I let myself think about what it would be like to actually talk to him again. All my focus was on just hoping he would survive. But now I have to navigate how different my life is now than it was the last time we saw each other.
Taking a breath, I open the door and push the curtain aside. In that second, I’m in two segments of my life. It’s suddenly two years ago, before Feathered Nest, before Sherwood. I’m trying to understand my relationship with Greg and what it means. I don’t want to be in this place, wondering if he’s going to try to explain away our breakup and try again. But Sam steps up behind me, and the warmth of his hand on my hip keeps me anchored here.
Greg is looking toward the window when we walk in, but he turns to me as I step up to the side of the bed. Even looking less severe with healing, the bruises and cuts on his face change his appearance. It’s hard to look at him. I know it’s him. There isn’t a question about that, but it’s still difficult to process seeing him awake and responding to me after two years of questions and wondering.
“Hi, Emma,” he whispers, not trying to force his voice louder like he did on the phone.
I step up closer.
“Hi, Greg,” I smile sadly. “It’s good to see you awake.”
I want to ask how he’s feeling, but the words feel like feathers in my mouth. Useless and flighty. Just something people say to fill space and acknowledge set situations. Instead, I pull a chair over and sit down. Maybe this should be one of those times I push my career aside and try to think purely as one person reaching out to another, but I can’t. When I look at Greg, I’m relieved he’s awake and healing. I don’t want him to suffer any more pain or experience any ill effects after this. But I also can’t wait. I can’t use up any more of the time I have waiting for information, searching for details.
“Greg, how did you get here? Two years ago… what happened?”
“The nurse told me there was a picture,” he croaks.
I nod. “Do you know how they found you?”
“Not much. Just that I’ve been out for a while.”
“You were wrapped in plastic. There were pictures wrapped with you and he…”
Emotion hits me suddenly, but I fight to keep it out of my voice, not wanting to cause any more stress and upset in this already difficult situation. “He dumped you out of a car into my yard.”
He drew in a breath. I can almost see his mind grinding, churning through the memories of what happened to him over the last two years.
“Do you have the picture?” he asks.
The original is in the investigation files. It didn’t occur to me Amelia would tell him about it without telling him what was in it. I take out my phone and search through the messages for the one Bellamy sent to me the day they found Greg.
“There are others, but this is the one they showed me.”
I turn the screen to him, and he takes the phone from my hand, staring with a stony jaw at the image of him and my uncle sitting in the car.
“What are the other ones?” he asks.
“Your injuries, another of the two of you together, one of an open grave.”
He nods slowly, then hands me the phone.
“Do you remember the night you were working late, and I got upset because we weren’t going to get to the restaurant on time?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him. “You went to pick some food up for us.”
“Yes,” Greg nods. “That’s when I met him.” He nods toward the phone. “He was in the parking deck. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There, standing in front of me, was the mythical Ian Griffin.”
“Greg,” I say painfully, shaking my head as I try to figure out how I’m going to explain this all to him.
“I know,” he says before I can even continue.
“You do?” I ask.
“That wasn’t your father. I didn’t know it at the time. Really, I didn’t. I had heard so much about him and how incredible his career was. It was such an honor just to meet him, then when he said,” Greg pauses, tilting his head back and closing his eyes as he seems to concentrate on taking in a breath and swallowing.
“You don’t have to keep going,” I tell him. “You can take a break.”
He
