He was quiet for a long moment. His thumb traced circles on my palm, that familiar gesture that should have been comforting but now just felt sad.
“When we get home,” he said finally, voice low, defeated. “When you’re released from this hospital. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”
I looked at him, wanting to argue and demand answers right now. But the medication was making everything soft like I was laying in clouds, and his eyes were pleading with me in a way I’d never seen before.
“Promise?” My voice was barely a breath.
“I promise.” He smoothed my hair back again. “Everything. When we’re home.”
My eyes were getting heavy. Whatever they’d given me was strong, pulling me toward sleep.
“Don’t leave,” I said.
“I’m right here.” His hand tightened on mine. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
Sleep pulled me under slowly this time, dragging me down into darkness. But even as I faded, my mind kept circling back to those words. The ones I’d heard in the hallway.
Something was wrong.
Something huge.
Something terrible.
CHAPTER 14
Claudette
They dischargedme with a list of instructions that basically amounted to: don’t do anything that might remind you you’re alive.
Avoid stress. Rest frequently. No strenuous activity. Monitor for headaches, dizziness, or changes in vision. Return immediately if symptoms worsen.
At least I could go home. I didn’t realize how much I hated the hospital smell until now. The antiseptic smell that had followed me for two days felt familiar in a way that made my stomach twist.
My parents had gone back to California this morning.
Pauline had visited yesterday, but she wasn’t the usual Pauline I knew—too quiet, too careful.
I hated the way they all looked at me with something resembling pity. Like I was totally fragile and the slightest wind would blow me away. Above all, I couldn’t stop thinking about Michael and Jack’s conversation.
Michael signed my name on the document the nurse pointed, and we were free to go.
The ride home was quiet. Too quiet. Unlike the warmth that had grown between us just days before. Michael kept both hands on the wheel, but his eyes kept flicking to me. Quick glances every thirty seconds like he was making sure I was still alive.
“I’m fine,” I said after the fifth or sixth time.
“I know.”
“Then stop checking.”
He didn’t argue. Just kept driving with his eyes flicking between the road and me, and I felt the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing against the windows.
I turned to look out the window instead. Vegas slid past in a blur of neon and glass, all noise and life I suddenly felt separate from. And I felt so far removed from it. Like I was watching everything through thick glass. Like I was in the car but not really in it. Present but separate.
I’d been relieved about getting discharged, to go home.
Only now, home felt impossibly far away.
I didn’t realize how weak I was until I tried to get out of the car.
