“I told you we were done. I told you I never wanted to see you again. And you still did this.”
The beeping makes my ears ring, but he still doesn’t move.
“Why? Why would you risk everything for someone who walked away from you?”
I think about our last conversation in that parking garage. About the hurt in his face when I told him not to use theword love like it meant something. About how I accused him of betraying me when he was trying to protect me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I walked away. I’m sorry it took you getting shot for me to realize that you were telling the truth about loving me.”
The monitors keep beeping. Zane keeps breathing with help from the ventilator. And I keep holding his hand, hoping he can somehow hear me.
“The contract’s void, by the way. Morrison says the syndicate’s finished, which means I don’t have to throw tomorrow’s game. I don’t have to do any of it.” I lean closer. “You saved me. Again. Even after I told you I was done with you.”
A nurse comes in to check his vitals, adjusts something on one of the machines.
“How is he?” I ask.
“Stable for now. The next twenty-four hours are critical.” She looks at me sympathetically. “Are you staying the night?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
She leaves, and I settle back into the chair, still holding his hand.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” I say quietly. “But I need you to know something. I need you to know that I was wrong. About all of it. About the lying, about the FBI, about you not trusting me with the truth.”
The ventilator hisses softly.
“I understand now why you made the choices you made. And I understand that everything you did was to protect people you cared about. Including me.” I squeeze his hand gently. “Especially me.”
His face is still, peaceful in a way that scares me. Like he’s already somewhere else.
“Please don’t leave me,” I whisper, a tear slipping down my face. “Not now. Not when I finally understand what you were trying to tell me.”
The machines keep their steady rhythm. The night stretches ahead, long and uncertain.
I hold his hand and pray to a God I’m not sure I believe in that the man I love will open his eyes again.
Because I’m not ready to say goodbye.
THIRTY-FIVE
tate
The hospital chapelis empty except for me and whatever God might be listening.
It’s been eighteen hours since I got the call about Zane and rushed to his side. I’ve sat by his bed and held his hand while machines keep him alive, listening to doctors talk about things I don’t want to hear.
The chapel is small but comforting. There are wooden pews, stained glass, and a cross on the wall. It’s quiet and peaceful and I hope being here might do some good for Zane.
I didn’t come right away. I mean, I haven’t been to church since I was a kid. But sitting in that ICU room, watching Zane fight to breathe, I felt like I needed to be here.
“Look,” I say out loud to the empty room, “I don’t know if you’re real or if this is just me talking to myself. But if you are real, if you’re listening, I need you to know something about Zane Christensen.”
I clear my throat and keep talking. “He’s a good man. He made some bad choices, but he made them for the right reasons. He was trying to protect his father and me.”
My voice echoes in the still space.
