Her eyes flashed. "Of course he did. Because heaven forbid I have any say in my own medical care."
"Imani." I waited until she looked at me. "You were shot at. Your best friend was kidnapped. You have injuries. Can you please, for once, let someone take care of you?"
"I don't need anybody to take care of me. I can do it on my own!" She stopped, pressing her fingers to her temples. The fight went out of her suddenly, replaced by exhaustion. "I don't need you to take care of me."
But her voice was quieter now. Uncertain. The nurse left, closing the door behind her with a knowing look.
"What is this?" I asked once we were alone. "What are we doing here?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "At the wedding, you let me take you back to your hotel. We talked for hours. We kissed."
"Marco, don’t."
"We kissed," I continued, "and it was fucking amazing. You felt it too, don't lie. And then we texted every day. You told me about your consulting business, I told you about my life. We talked about everything. Philosophy, business, your divorce, my complete inability to maintain a relationship. You laughed at my jokes. You let me in."
I stood and moved closer to the bed.
"And then I offered to come to see you. To take you to dinner like we planned. And you've been—" I gestured at her, frustrated, "—like this. Hot one minute, cold the next. Pushing me away then pulling me back. What the hell changed?"
She was quiet for a long moment, staring at her hands.
"I don't do this," she said finally.
"Do what?"
"Lose control. Fall for someone I barely know. Let someone see me when I'm..." She gestured at herself—the hospital gown, the bruises, the vulnerability. "When I'm weak."
"You're not weak. You're injured. There's a difference."
"Not to me." She looked up at me, and I saw fear beneath the anger. "I spent ten years in a marriage where I had to be perfect. Strong. In control. My ex-husband couldn't handle it when I showed emotion or needed support. He needed me to be the strong one, always. And when I finally cracked, broke down, and I finally admitted I was struggling—he left."
"I'm not him."
"I know that. Logically, I know that." She pressed her fingers to her temples again. "But the last three days… the shooting, watching Karla get hit, Angelina being taken, being trapped in this hospital with nothing to do but think, it reminded me what happens when I let my guard down. When I let people in."
"People get hurt," I finished quietly.
"People get hurt," she agreed. "And I can't…" Her voice cracked and tears pooled in her beautiful brown eyes. "I can't watch another person I care about get hurt because of me."
I sat on the edge of her bed, carefully avoiding her injured arm.
"Imani. Look at me."
She did, reluctantly.
"That shooting had nothing to do with you. Vincent was after Angelina. You and your friends just happened to be there. None of that was your fault."
"But if I hadn't suggested lunch this wouldn’t have happened."
"Then he would have tried something else. Another time, another place. You didn't cause this." I took her good hand. "And pushing me away isn't going to protect me from the world. It's just going to make both of us miserable."
"You don't understand." She pulled her hand back. "I'm not good at this. At being vulnerable. At needing someone. I'm the one people come to for advice. I solve problems. I don't have problems."
"Everyone has problems, Imani."
"Not me. I can't afford to." She was getting agitated now, her heart rate monitor beeping faster. "I have a business to run. Clients depending on me. I can't be the consultant who falls apart because she got scared. I can't be the woman who needs rescuing."
