I don’t know why she bothers if she’s dying.
“Why wouldn’t he?” she asks lightly.
More tears gather in my eyes.
Because I fucked it up.
I am unworthy of him and the things he does. The person he is. He’d be better if he never saw me again.
He saves people’s lives?
And I … cost them.
“Emmett, why wouldn’t he come back?”
Bobbie is looking at me now, her brow dipped low and her head slightly cocked.
“I … we had …I don’t know.”
I sigh heavily and run my knuckles over the tops of my thighs, digging the bone into muscle and relishing in the ache that comes from it.
I deserve it and so much more.
“He’s a super sweet guy, honey. A great friend, I bet.” She looks forlorn at the bed and the thing that’s barely human separating us.
Which means she doesn’t see the way I stiffen.
Friend.
I’m not even sure he’d called me after what I did.
He’d be right not to.
“We’re gonna make sure you’re comfortable,” she whispers thickly to Mother, “until I can figure something out.”
Chapter 53
Emmett
The room is darkdespite the flashing lights from the TV that’s muted and the door that was left cracked, letting in some of the ambient light spill into the room. It’s just a sliver, a pale line along the sterile white wall that almost makes it glow.
I have no idea how long I’ve been staring at it. Watching the shadows flicker across it and disappear. Darkening it with hope that maybe it’ll come to life.
It won’t, I know that, and yet every motion makes my chest clench a little tighter.
Bobbie said she’d be back to check on Mother, that she had something she wanted to try but needed to get some input from another doctor.
I’m not sure why she keeps wasting her talent here. Around people like me and my mother.
She’s too good. Just like Tristen.
My stomach clenches hard when the sliver darkens, then fades back into light.
Hours have passed; the time only broken up by the on-call nurse peeking their heads in to check on the actual patient here. They ask me if I need anything, but they don’t mean it.
Not that they can give me what I need anyway.
The heated blankets can’t touch the warmth of Hatley’s bed. The mass-produced toast is nowhere near as good as the stolen loaf of bread I nearly burned and covered in peanut butter in Tristen’s kitchen.
