She looked a little taken aback at that. Like, how could this poor, injured woman not want someone here to support her?
But I’m not dragging my aunt all the way here from Arizona. And I’m not calling Brian in Florida, either. If my mom were still alive, I’d have asked the nurse to call her, but we’re about five years too late for that.
Anyway, I’ve been doing just fine on my own. Or I was, up until I ended up in an alley on the Upper West Side, beaten up by two unidentified men, with no idea why I was attacked or how I got there.
Because, although I’m fortunatelynothallucinating, I’m one of the unlucky ones with memory loss as a side effect of her concussion.
Not total memory loss. Thank God. I still know who I am, who the president is, the year; I know where I live and what I do for a living. I know my mom died from an aneurysm when I was thirty, and my dad? Well, no clue about him. But that has nothing to do with my memory and everything to do with him taking off when I was only six months old for parts unknown.
I remember almost everything, in fact, except for the attack and the week leading up to it. Which means I can’t identify my attackers, if I even saw their faces. I don’t know why I was in the city instead of home in my apartment, like I usually would have been. I don’t know if the attack was a random mugging, an attempted assault, or if I was specifically targeted.
So that isn’t great.
Seeing my ex in the doorway of my hospital room with no idea why he’s here?
Also not great.
Icouldkeep pretending I’m asleep, watching Nico through slitted lids until he finally gives up and leaves.
Or I could open my eyes and let him know I’m awake. Find out why he’s here.
The weak part of me, the scared and hurting part that’s still reeling from waking up in the ambulance after being attacked, wants to play possum until he goes away.
But the other part, the part that dragged myself out of the darkest hole I’ve ever been in and somehow cobbled a life back together again, resists.
I’m not a coward. And whatever he wants, I can handle it.
So I grit my teeth, regretting it the instant pain flares through my head, and open my eyes.
In the doorway, Nico jolts slightly.
“Why—” My voice comes out on a croak. Swallowing to wet my throat, I try again. “Why are you here?”
Nico steps into the room. His forehead furrows. “What do you mean?”
I try to maneuver myself into a sitting position, but my muscles don’t want to obey. Which means I’m stuck, lying here, feeling at a significant disadvantage as he approaches.
Lifting my chin, at least, I answer, “Why are you at the hospital? In myroom?”
Once he reaches the bed, he studies me for a few seconds. A muscle twitches in his jaw. He uncrosses his arms and shoves his hands into his pants pockets. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
I hate having him towering over me like this, so I try to sit up again. I know it won’t resolve the height difference between us,not with me in bed and him standing, but if I’m at least sitting, maybe I won’t feel as vulnerable.
Halfway up, my arms wobble, and I sag back onto the mattress again.
Argh.
“Sofia.” His tone is scolding. “Maybe you should just lie down.”
Irritation flares. “Maybe I should do whatever I want,” I snap.
A moment later, I inwardly cringe.Great. The first time I’m talking to my ex in almost two decades, and I sound like a recalcitrant child.
“You have a concussion,” Nico states. “Plus a partial subluxation of your left shoulder. I don’t think it’s the best idea to try sitting up on your own.”
He stares at me for a moment, frowning. Then he asks, “Do you want me to help you sit up? If you’re determined to do it, it would be better if you had help. Or I can call a nurse, if you’d prefer.”
“No. It’s fine.” The very thought of Nico touching me, those big hands on my back, bringing back memories of?—
