Woody's POV:
"I told you to find her, and bring her home," I angrily spat at Nigel. Nigel stood in the doorway unwilling to move any closer to me. I didn't blame him; I had been something less than diplomatic since I had taken up residence at the hospital.
"Jordan said that her and Cal are both okay. She's a big girl, Woody. Jordan has an uncanny way of being able to handle difficult situations," Nigel replied. Judging from the tone of his voice, I was indeed one of the difficult situations.
"I'm his brother, and I haven't figured out how to handle him," I yelled, "He's going to get her killed, Nigel. If and when it happens, I'm holding you personally accountable."
With my final barb, Nigel left. There really wasn't anything else to be said. There really wasn't much I could do from this damn hospital bed besides leave her voicemail messages that she obviously didn't want to return.
"Dammit, Jordan. I don't know what the hell you are thinking. You saw what Cal can do . . . the Albanian bar. Do I really have to remind you?" I angrily spat into the telephone. I knew this wasn't the way to get Jordan back to Boston, but I for some reason couldn't say to her what she said to me.
"Jordan, please come home. I need you," I said before hanging up the phone.
The silence in my hospital room was painful. Nobody stopped by to see me anymore because I didn't have a kind word to share with them. I was mad at the world for landing me in this hospital bed. I was mad that Jordan could only tell me the things I always wanted to hear when she thought I was dying.
I pushed the button on my PCA morphine machine. I hoped the medication might help me sleep.
Jordan's POV:
"I used to play that game. My father was a sheriff in Orlando before it became so commercialized," Dr. Erb said as he poked at his lunch, "Sweetheart, you need to eat something. Look at how thin you are."
"Sorry," I said as I played with my salad. I didn't really feel hungry. I listened to my voicemails from Woody last night. It was funny how he could make my emotions jump from enraged to depressed to something else I couldn't describe. No one else had that power over me. I normally didn't care what other people said, but with Woody . . . it meant everything.
"Jordan, why did you decide to work during your vacation?" Dr. Erb asked as he began to concentrate a little more on his Monte Cristo sandwich. He was an endearing old man. He was the ideal, Norman Rockwell grandfather that I had always dreamed of having.
"I don't know. I guess I really love my job," I replied though there was a distinct hitch in my voice.
"Sweetheart, you shouldn't love your job so much. It's good thing for me. I needed the help around the lab. Jordan, just don't wake up someday and realize that all you have is your job," Dr. Erb said.
I'll give him four more weeks to heal. I'll give Cal four more weeks to keep working on staying clean. I'll give my heart four more weeks to fix itself.
I knew that I couldn't go back to Boston. I knew I couldn't look him in eyes; the wounds were still too fresh. The scared little girl that I kept locked inside my fierce persona had managed to find her way out again. That scared little girl didn't know if she could be rejected again.