So I lift her, cradling her in my arms as we all run out, away from the basement and to safety.
10
Hazel
Twelve:The number of red roses in the vase beside my bed.
Ten: The number of days I’ve been here, resting and recovering.
Seven: The number of stitches on my scalp.
Infinity: The number of times Vincent has held my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles gently. A wordless apology with a look in his eyes that is so sorrowful that I can’t help but weaken for him, letting go of my anger little by little no matter how hard I try to hold onto it.
Because I have reasons to be angry. Good reasons. The lies, the secrecy. The stitches on my head wouldn’t be there if it weren’t for him. If I’d never met him, or maybe if he’d simply told me the truth from the beginning.
The doctor finishes examining me, returning his tools to his bag.
“So?” Vincent asks impatiently.
“Healing well,” the doctor says to him. “She’s clear for most activities, but she still needs rest. Lots of sleep, water, and nutrient rich food.”
“I’ll make sure that happens,” Vincent says, looking past the doctor and at me. “Thank you.”
The doctor gives me a warm smile and a friendly wave, then leaves.
Vincent comes to me, a bottle of water in one hand and a pill in the other.
“I don’t need that anymore,” I say, pushing his hand away. “You heard him. I’m all good now.”
“That’s not what he said,” Vincent replies. “There’s no need to deprive yourself of pain relief.”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “Unless you plan to shove that pill down my throat, forget it.”
He freezes, and for a second I think he’s actually considering doing just that. But then he puts the pill and water down on the bedside table and takes a seat on the edge of the bed.
“You’ll stay here for another few days,” he says firmly.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I say. “I stayed here because I couldn’t fly yet, and because I can’t afford a hotel room for two weeks in this damn city. Now that I’m well enough, I’m flying home.”
I begin to sit up and get out of bed when Vincent’s hand reaches to me, pushing me back into the bed.
I hate the way my body responds to him. The hand holding. The gentle kisses on my forehead when he thinks I’m sleeping. But now his touch is more forceful, more reminiscent of the rough sex we used to enjoy before it all went down the drain. My heart jumps from his firm hold on my shoulder, my nipples hardening as my breath hitches in my throat.
“You’ll stay here,” Vincent repeats in a low voice. “Where I can take care of you.”
“Take care of me. Because you’re really good at that, right?”
Boom. A blow, right where it hurts him.
His hand releases me, and his eyes stare at the wall behind me.
A couple of weeks ago I would have killed for the opportunity to land a blow like that, to wound Vincent and give him a taste of the emotional pain he’d caused me.
But today it doesn’t feel good. Not satisfying, the way I’d fantasized when I was in the depths of the heartbreak.
Because the truth is, even after all of this fucked up crap that he put me through, I still love him. Which might be the most fucked up thing of all.
So hurting Vincent doesn’t feel good. It feels like hurting someone that I love, like hurting myself.
