A doctor comes in. She’s wearing a mask, but the crinkle around her eyes lets me know she’s smiling. She runs through pain control, activity, fluids, the numbers we’re aiming for.
“We’re encouraged,” she says, which is cautious optimism in doctor language. “If your markers keep trending this way, we could be looking at discharge shortly after the new year.”
“Home for the new year,” Clara says. “God, I can’t even believe it.”
I pull a pen from my bag and write down what the doctor says on the little note pad by the bed. It gives my hands a job while my eyes try not to water. The doctor leaves us with a wave and another smile.
Clara watches me cap the pen. “If this temporary job hurts you later, we walk.”
“We walk,” I promise.
We hook pinkies. It feels ridiculous. It feels like armor. We both breathe a sigh of relief when we let go.
A food tray rolls by the open door. The smell is a crime, and a sudden wave of nausea nearly chokes me.
“You should eat,” I say, breathing through my mouth.
“You okay?” Clara asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Hospital food is a hate crime.”
She snorts and then winces. I rub her shoulder until the line on her forehead eases. The queasiness lingers like a bad song.
I help her sip water. I adjust her pillows. I scroll through the TV and land on a nature show with wolves. “You’ll fall asleep in three minutes,” I tell her.
“Bet you I make it to five,” she says, cocky with a grin.
“High roller,” I quip and sit. My leg starts bouncing on its own. I glare at it like that will make it stop.
“If the bank falls through,” she says quietly, “we’ll figure something out. I can pick up shifts once they release me.”
“Stop,” I say. “Concentrate on healing. I’ve got it covered.”
She studies my face and puts the question back on the shelf. It’s only a matter of time before Clara gets the truth out of me. But not today.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Damien.
Café downstairs—want anything?
My brain thinks coffee. My stomach turns hard in refusal.
Tea,I type back.Ginger if they have it.
Another wave of nausea slams me, sharp and dizzying, my stomach churning like a storm. I bolt to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink. Cold porcelain steadies me as I grip it, retching faintly, the sickness fading as fast as it came. I splash water on my face and catch my breath, my reflection pale under the fluorescent lights.
I step out. Clara’s brow is furrowed in concern. “Cass, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile. My mind races. I can’t remember when my last period was. Stress, gunfire, Damien’scock claiming me could explain the delay. Or…no. The thought causes my pulse to spike. I touch the red ribbon under my sleeve, the silk suddenly feeling heavy.
Clara reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for getting me here.” Tears prick my eyes, hot and sudden. I blink at the ceiling, swallowing hard.
“You owe me a boring Christmas next year,” I tease, voice steadying.
“Next year, boring. Got it.”
I hold onto her hand like a lifeline while the heart monitor beeps, my thoughts racing.
CHAPTER 21
