“What about your hand?” I asked, gaze sliding to the next bandage.
“It’s cut,” he said, avoiding my gaze by wiggling around against the pillow.
That answer wasn’t good enough, so I continued to stare until he got the hint.
“They glued it shut,” he elaborated.
“Where else are you hurt?”
“Why are you here?” he questioned, his eyes finally lifting to me.
It was a good question. I also wondered why I was here. After all, I’d told him I wasn’t coming. The next thing I knew, I was stepping off the fourth-floor elevator and nearly mowed over by a hurricane in a hospital gown.
I knew it was him the second he looked up. Those eyes were unforgettable, and the innocence he’d emitted in the photo was even more palpable in person.
His leg bounced nervously against the mattress, making the bed vibrate while he fidgeted with the IV line that had clearly once been in his arm.
I was top-notch at assessing a situation. I prided myself on reading a room and the people in it in record time. For me, it was often a matter of life or death. So even when it wasn’t—like now—I still did it, the instinct too natural to ever turn off.
But this little hazard was almost too easy. Once again, I wondered if he was manipulating me. Hell, everyone.
There’s no way someone is this naïve and harmless.
The longer I went without responding to his question, the more he abused the IV line, folding the tubing in half and twisting it between his fingers.
Reaching down, I pulled it away, and the second it unfolded, liquid dripped out of the end. “You left me on read,” I told him.
“You said you wouldn’t come.”
Yet here I sit.
A woman dressed in white scrubs bustled into the room and began tsking at the sight of the IV and his arm. After setting her supplies on the bed and fisting her hands on her hips, she shook her head. “Just look at what you’ve done.”
“I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, contrite.
“Are you going to yank it out if I put it back?” she asked. “The doctor said you’re dehydrated.”
“I’ll drink some water when I get home.” He bargained, trying to use those eyes to get his way.
Like hell.
“Put it back in,” I ordered. “He can finish this bag and then another before we leave.”
“What?” His voice was plaintive, almost whiny. But those two-toned eyes were accusing. “I don’t want that.”
“If you’re dehydrated, it’s what you need.”
“This is not why I texted you,” he mumbled.
“Well, you did, and I’m here,” I said, turning to the nurse who was watching us curiously. “I’ll make sure it stays in his arm this time.”
“And you are…?” she asked.
“His boyfriend.” The title rolled right off my tongue without a hitch. Did I mention I was also top-notch at lying?
The hazard in the bed made a choked sound, and I pinned him with a stare and arched an eyebrow.Go ahead and deny it. Deny me.
His face flushed, and his leg began bouncing on the mattress once more.
