Kidnapped Love

Chapter 21

Chapter 21:

Eyes fluttering open, the soft light filtering through gauzy curtains, I found myself cocooned in the warmth of a purple throw blanket. The cushions cradled me with an unexpected comfort despite the throbbing that pulsated at my temples. Attempting to push myself upright, a sharp groan escaped me as my fingers found the tender spot on my head—a souvenir from the accident.

"Hey, you are finally awake," Ron's voice cut through the haze of my consciousness.

I twisted slightly, spotting him nestled in the reclining chair, his presence a reassuring constant. "When did we come home?" My voice sounded foreign, rough from sleep and disuse.

"Yesterday." His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes held stories untold.

A mixture of confusion and disbelief must have painted my expression because he quickly added, "You've been asleep for that long."

I watched as he hoisted himself out of the chair with a gracelessness dictated by necessity—his good leg taking the brunt of his weight while the other was conspicuously suspended in a blue cast. Parked on the coffee table, he peered down at me, eyes swirling with regret. "I am so sorry that this happened. It was all my fault."

Shaking my head, I dismissed his guilt as easily as brushing away a fly. "No, it wasn't. It was an accident." My words were firm, meant to anchor him back to reason.

His gaze dropped to the floorboards, unable to meet mine. "The doctor said you have a concussion, and you could have some memory problems and fatigue." The hesitation in his voice was palpable, like walking on thin ice.

Offering a half smile, I reassured him, "I remember everything Ron. The movie, the accident, all of it. There are no missing pieces."

"Wouldn't know if anything was missing, would you?" He tried to lighten the mood, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

Rolling my eyes, I swatted the air dismissively. "I'm fine," I insisted, then softened, "I don't blame you for the accident." The last thing he needed was to shoulder a burden that wasn't his to carry.

"Okay, but if you need anything, just ask." His sincerity shone through, even as a sheen of unshed tears glistened in his eyes.

"Thanks, hop-along," I quipped, nodding towards his makeshift pedestal. "But I think you're the one who should be asking for help right now."

Ron stood up from the coffee table with a chuckle, and I couldn't help but admire his resilience. As he hobbled away, my attention was drawn to a stack of cards lined up like pastel soldiers. Flipping through them, each card unfolded a bloom of well-wishes until I paused at Mike's handwriting. Since the night of the Summer Dance, our communication had been non-existent, his silence a loud echo of the distance between us.

"Did Mike go to the hospital?" I called out, hoping to bridge the gap with his written words.

"No, he came here yesterday after we got home." Ron's voice floated from the kitchen, his silhouette framed in the doorway, leaning on his crutches.

"He stayed a while, and he told me about the dance." There was a hesitancy in his admission, suggesting an underlying question waiting to break the surface.

"Is that the same guy you've been staying out with at night?" His inquiry, cautious yet loaded, hovered between us.

"Yeah, it is." Confidence bolstered my response, leaving no room for doubt.

"Is he a good guy?" Ron's next question was straightforward, laced with protective undertones.

Nodding, I assured him, "Yeah. He's good."