“Maeve?” he rasps.
A tear trickles down my cheek at the sound of his voice, and I swallow down the thick, cottony wad stuck in my throat as I try to give him a soft smile.
Tate’s face drops into a more serious one as he tries to push himself up into a more upright seated position. “Maeve? What’s wrong?”
I probably look insane, standing here at the doorway in a rigid, frozen stance, about to burst into sobs like some sort of crazy person. Sucking in a deep breath, I meticulously shake my head as I manage to croak out, “Nothing.”
He doesn’t look convinced in the slightest, and I can’t blame him. What the hell am I doing right now?
“Maeve,” he says again, even softer this time, as he lifts his hand, stretching out his fingers to me and signaling me over, “come here. Please?”
My feet feel like they weigh a hundred pounds as they drag me into the room, toward where he sits in his bed, until I’m collapsing as gently as I can into his open arms. My sobs are immediate, and especially when I hear the sharp intake of breath as I collide with him, knowing he’s probably sore from surgery. The guilt consumes me as I press my face into his shoulder, but when his arms wrap around my trembling body, all I feel is warmth. All I can smell is him. All I can feel is him. All of it is so overwhelming that I can’t stop crying once I start, the tears keep flowing and soaking his hospital gown as he rubs my back, pressing his face into my hair and shushing me softly.
“What happened, Maeve? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble into his shoulder, my body wracking with uncontrollable sobs. “It’s n-nothing, Tate. I’msorry.”
His hands that were on my back slide up toward my shoulders until they’re coming up to cup my face in his palms, pulling me back just slightly so he can see me. “Hey. Hey,shh. Look at me. It’s okay. Take a deep breath.”
“I’m s-sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he whispers.
“I think I’m just…tired. I’m so tired. It’s b-been a long day. Well, and night–”
“Shh,” he says again, pulling me into his chest this time, and I don’t hesitate to bury my face there, “just…lay here with me. Sleep. It’s okay, Mae.”
Before I can protest, he’s sliding down a little in the bed and readjusting me until I’m perfectly aligned with him, my head resting on his chest. There’s still a tiny part of me that wants to protest, but as I listen to the sound of his breathing and go with the movements of his chest as it rises and falls with each breath, the sleepy weight pulls at my eyes in a matter of minutes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TATUM
Sunday, January 2nd
Maeve slept pressed tightly to my chest with my arms wrapped around her until the sun came up. As sore as I felt from the surgery, I still didn’t move. I just sat and watchedForensic Fileson the TV until one of the nurses made their rounds every so often, checking on me while careful not to wake the sad girl on my chest.
She looked like she had seen a ghost when I glanced up to find her standing in the doorway. Seeing her cry like that nearly broke me. She was sobbing so hard she was trembling just trying to catch her breath, and not one single piece of me liked it. Of course I was concerned about what could have happened while I was in surgery to have made her so upset, but that could come later, when she woke up with a fresh head after some sleep.
When she eventually stirs, I don’t waste any time reaching over to grab the tiny pink cup of water that’s been sitting on the rolly table next to the bed, knowing she’ll probably need it after crying most of it out earlier.
A raspy groan leaves her lips as she weakly pushes up from my chest, and as she sits up, I get a better look at her face.Her beautiful brown eyes are puffy underneath, squinty as she looks up at me as if she knows and can feel it, too. Her brows pinch together as a look of panic takes over her features, but I’m handing over the cup of water before she can start to fret.
“I don’t have a toothbrush or anything,” she whines, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“Drink this.”
“But I?—”
“Please drink.”
She swallows thickly as she pouts, before gently grabbing the cup and taking a sip without another word. She cradles it like it might break as she drinks from it a few times, and then she puts it back into my already waiting hand.
“I don’t wanna have morning breath,” she croaks after a moment of staring apprehensively at me, talking with her head at an awkward angle, and it makes me want to laugh.
“I don’t care about that right now,” I tell her, my hands coming up to rest on her shoulders as I rub and knead them gently with my thumbs. “I care about how you’re feeling. Talk to me? Please? Tell me what happened.”
Her swollen eyes grow softer, widening just a bit as she fidgets with her hands in her lap. I slide mine from her shoulders down her arms, grasping her shaky hands in my fingers and squeezing them as I wait for her to speak. She toys with her bottom lip between her teeth as she takes a few deep breaths, and the sudden fear of what she’s going to say ripples through me.
