I watch as he grips my thigh, wrapping his large hand around it, peering up at me with a desperate expectancy. His brown hair clings to his sweaty skin and his lips are swollen from me, and God, he’s a beautiful specimen.
“You did perfect, Clark,” I tell him breathlessly, sliding my hand down my stomach until I’m grasping his chin in my palm, swiping my thumb through the dampness there. “You’re wearing the proof of that, if you couldn’t tell.”
His smile spreads even bigger, if that’s possible. If I weren’t already out of breath, I surely would be now as he beams up at me, looking like a portrait I want to hang on my wall.
As innocent as the thought may seem, like clockwork, it has my fight-or-flight instincts kicking in. And as usual, my first thought is to flee, as quickly as I can. Abort mission. Change the subject. Because I’m catching feelings for him at a rate I’m losing control of, and I’m not ready for that. I need to fix me. I need to repair what’s broken inside me before I let this happen. This can’t happen now.
But I fear, as I gaze down at his warm features, it might be too late.
CHAPTER THIRTY
TATUM
Saturday, January 1st
I’ve never had surgery before, unless wisdom tooth removal counts, but even then, that was nothing compared to this. Standing in the bland hospital room, so cold that I’m practically shivering, dressed in nothing but a hospital gown, a cap, and even some weird paper slippers as the nurse places a hospital band around my wrist, has to be up there on the list of things that have made me so anxious, I could pass out.
But I’ve been feeling like that since I woke up at four o’clock this morning.
The tight chest, the feeling of not quite being able to take a deep breath, like I’m holding it almost and waiting for something bad to happen. My anxiety riddles me in a way it hasn’t before, and it makes me feel on the cusp of a panic attack. I’d fall right into one if it wasn’t for Maeve, standing off to the side, just enough to give the nurse space, but her hand is on my back—rubbing it back and forth, over and over again.
It’s the only thing grounding me.
“Dr. Hammond says you can talk with your mother before we take you back,” the nurse says to me, pulling me from my thoughts, “if you’d like.”
And there goes the floor underneath my feet.
“No,” I rush out before clearing my throat, and Maeve’s hand stills on my back. “No, I just want to get this over with.”
If there’s a look in the nurse’s eye, I don’t catch it before she gives me a friendly smile. Maeve is too far back in my peripheral to really gauge a reaction from, and that makes a thick ball of dread form in my throat.
“That’s alright. Confirm your full name and birthday for me, please.”
I swallow. “Tatum Emery Brooks. September 2nd, 1999.”
“Perfect. Now, I’ll ask you to lay up here for me,” she says, patting the hospital bed. “I’m going to insert your IV, and then we’ll take your vitals before surgery.”
My shoulders rise and fall shakily at my attempt at a deep breath, but then Maeve’s hand on my back nudges me gently forward before sliding up to the back of my neck, scratching in a comforting way. A way that has the reassurance shuddering through my body. The first wave of warmth I’ve gotten since arriving here this morning. Peering over at her briefly, the soft smile she sends me is enough to make me climb into the bed with a little more confidence.
Maeve takes a spot on one side of the bed while the nurse takes the other, wiping at the back of my hand with an alcohol swab. Knowing what’s coming next, I quickly look up at Maeve, who’s already staring down at me. Putting both of her hands on my arm, she squeezes gently. I don’t look away from her, not when the needle pricks my skin, not when the pressure makes nausea roll in my stomach, and not even when the nurse starts to take my vitals.
My gaze doesn’t waver, and neither does hers.
I try to pass a million words through my eyes, hoping she understands, hoping that magically, she can read my mind. Saying everything I want to say, but can’t. That as I look at her, watching every twitch between her brow as she contemplates what this feeling that we’re sharing right now might be, every purse of her lips as she goes to gnaw at them from the inside, every bat of her lashes against her cheekbones, I’m certain that I love her.
I’m certain because her presence is calming, even now, when I want to fall into a full-blown panic. I’m certain because I crave all the tiny, little things about her that wouldn’t matter to anyone else, but they matter to me—how she has to sleep in a freezing cold room with true crime on the TV every night, how she’ll get frustrated with the way her hair is sitting so she’ll put a hat on in that cute, grumpy way she does, or how she’ll play with her ear, twisting her earring when she’s anxious.
I’mcertainbecause just existing with her the past few weeks has been the easiest thing I’ve ever done. Because going back to Pennsylvania,home, won’t feel the same now, not when I feel like I found a home in her.
I don’t care where I am, I just know that I want her there.
I love her, and I don’t know how to tell her without sending her running for the hills. She’s like a lost puppy, sometimes, ready to run at the slightest inconvenience because she’s scared, and rightfully so. How can I blame her for being so scared of something good with everything she’s gone through? She’s used to everything in her life going up in flames and being treated like her thoughts and feelings are too much, likeshe’stoo much. But she could never be too much to me.
“Alright, I’ll be back in a minute,” the nurse says, breaking the spell I was under as I stared up at Maeve, “then we’ll roll you back to the OR and prep you for anesthesia.”
“Thank you,” I croak, giving my best attempt at a normal smile before the nurse leaves us alone in the quiet room.
I’m still staring at the open doorway when Maeve’s hand cups my cheek, pulling my attention back to her as I twist my head to look up at her. Her thumb brushes over my cheekbone a few times, and I lean into it, the warmth of her palm exploding over my cold skin.
