11
Alison
“When did I become this woman?”
I sat in my office at my desk, staring down at my cell phone. My fingers were knotted together in my lap, and a bottle of antacids was open on the blotter because my idiot nerves had been souring my stomach.
It had been five days since Noah’s surgery. Five days and eight hours since my last text from him, the one that had read,They’re making me give up my phone now, so I’ll catch you on the flip side. Don’t work too hard today. I’ll just be lying around sleeping . . . talk to you in a few, beautiful.
I hadn’t responded because I’d figured he wouldn’t see it until he was back in his hospital room. But that final text had come at seven-forty-five in the morning, and when I still hadn’t heard anything by four that afternoon, I’d been mildly concerned. I hadn’t been really worried, though, because I knew how hospitals worked. They might’ve taken his phone away and then surgery could’ve been delayed for hours. This wasn’t emergent, and the OR might have been usurped by a more urgent procedure. Or maybe his stuff had been delayed in getting to him, or they’d had to keep him in recovery for longer than usual because there hadn’t been an open hospital room. There were dozens of perfectly good reasons why I hadn’t received a text from him.
But when the phone had remained silent at nine o’clock that night, I’d finally broken down and texted him. I made a point of keeping it light and breezy so that he didn’t feel guilty about forgetting to message me, if that was what had happened.
Hey, stud, I’m sure you’re busy getting sponge baths from the pretty nurses, but let me know how you made out, k? When you get a chance.
For a solid thirty minutes after sending the text, I’d sat motionless on my sofa, waiting to see those three little tell-tale dots that would indicate he was typing an answer. But they never came.
In the four days since that night, I’d ricocheted from a nice feisty mad to stomach-clenching worry to a fruitless attempt to stop thinking about him. I’d entertained a variety of ideas that I told myself were just to satisfy morbid curiosity, including calling the hospital to ask about him (which I knew was a waste of time since no one would give out info on a patient unless she had prior approval). I could’ve driven to the hospital and used my privileges there to find out Noah’s status, but if he found out that I’d done that, I’d be mortified.
When I was driving into the office each morning, it was easy to be more rational and to think that maybe Noah’s surgery hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. Maybe he was depressed that he hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone. I should just bake some muffins and use that as an excuse to go visit him at his house.
But at night, when I was tossing and turning, it was far too easy to give credence to that insidious little voice that told me I’d been a fool to believe that someone like Noah Spencer would ever be interested in someone like me.
I’d spent the day before ripping out the floor and fixtures in my master bathroom, using all of my pent-up frustration to accomplish a hell of a lot more than I had in weeks. I hadn’t allowed myself to even glance at the phone. I’d blared the Doors, Muse, Billy Idol and Queen, singing along until I was hoarse.
Today, I’d done some clean-up work and prepped the floor for tiling, which I planned to tackle the following weekend. My work hours didn’t give me enough time to take on larger projects during the week. But by late afternoon, I’d done everything I could; my house was spotless, laundry caught up . . . I’d turned on the television to watch the Tampa game, but I didn’t see Noah on the sidelines, and the broadcasters didn’t mention him even once. I would have thought that if his surgery had been successful, the team might have given a target date for his return, but if they had, there wasn’t any mention today, and the internet was silent on the topic, too. Don’t ask me how I knew that.
I’d finally dreamed up an excuse to go into the office for a few hours, just to get out of the house, but once there, I’d been restless and jittery. That was why I was here now, trying not to think about my last viable option when it came to finding out what was going on with Noah—calling Emma.
I hadn’t spoken to her since her wedding. I knew she was going to be away for two weeks on her honeymoon—the destination was a surprise, though, so I had no idea where they’d gone. That would mean that today was the day they should’ve gotten home. I could always call her on the pretext of welcoming her back to Florida—which was lame since she and Deacon would probably be settling in and getting ready to go back to work the next day.
And how would I bring up Noah? Even if she’d noticed that we’d hung out together at the wedding, it would be odd for me to ask about him out of the blue, and probably even odder still that I’d be aware of his surgery. Knowing Emma, she’d be able to drag the truth out of me . . . and what if Noah had decided that we were just a fling, after all? What if all the talk about keeping an open mind about our future was forgotten in the excitement of a successful surgery?
What if I went absolutely stark raving mad from never finding out what had happened and why Noah had blown me off?
Giving up with a groan, I checked my texts one last time—nope, my light and breezy message about the sponge baths was still the last one showing—and then decided to compromise and text Emma first.
Welcome back from your honeymoon, married lady! If I didn’t say it enough before, your wedding was beautiful and I had a great time. Hope the trip to the surprise destination was magical and that the hospital is still standing.
And then I waited, popping another couple of antacids as I did.
When my phone rang, showing Emma’s name as the caller, I jumped, startled by the sound in the otherwise silent office. With shaking hands, I answered it, working hard to keep my voice steady.
“Well, hey! You didn’t have to call. I was just thinking about you guys and figured I’d check in.”
“It was just easier to call than to text.” Emma sounded exhausted and stressed. “We’re on our way home from Tampa.”
My ears perked up. “From the airport?”
“No, we actually ended up flying home a couple of days early.” I heard the sound of Deacon’s voice saying something to Emma on the other end. She sighed heavily. “Yeah, Deacon wasn’t sure if you might have heard, but Noah had surgery on his knee Tuesday.”
My heart was beating so fast that I was certain Emma could hear it on her end of the phone. Somehow, I managed to keep my words even. “Ah. Yeah.”
“He’d texted me to let me know what was happening, and then when I didn’t hear anything after the surgery, I called him and didn’t get any answer. So I called his mom, and she filled me in.” Emma sniffed, and an iron vice of fear closed around my middle. “There were complications with the surgery. It took longer than they expected—the damage was much worse than the doctors had thought—and then . . . afterwards, he didn’t wake up.”
I laid my head flat on the desk because the room was spinning around me. I thought feebly that I might have been about to pass out. I knew Emma was still talking, but I was suddenly back in the bridal gown shop in Philadelphia, hearing Tom’s sister sob as she told me that he’d been killed in a head-on collision.
Maybe I reallywasa black widow, the type of woman who carried bad luck with her everywhere she went.
