Glancing at the time, I realize it’s already close to one AM. Not a normal visiting time by any means. Practicality tells me I should just go to bed. And if I’m still worried about Sofia by tomorrow morning, I can swing by to see her on my way to work.
But my body doesn’t seem to agree.
It’s already heading over to the closet, moving in the direction of the shelf stacked with jeans.
As I pluck a pair from the pile, I tell the nurse, “I’ll be by in half an hour or so.”
She hesitates. “Okay. I’m sure she’ll be glad.”
I’m not so sure about that.
As I end the call, I think about the narrowed glare Sofia gave me as I came into her room. And the bitter note to her voice as she told me she didn’t need my help.
So, no, I’m not sure she’ll be glad to see me.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I reach for a sweater and tug it over my head.
She might not be happy to see me, but I’m going—if for no other reason than to ease my own tangled up feelings.
Besides,I tell myself while I gather up my coat and keys and head to the front door,if Sofia was a client, I wouldn’t leave her alone at the hospital. Not in these circumstances.
The truth is, if Sofia was a client, I wouldn’t have left her alone at all. I would have called in a small team to stand guard at the hospital, one outside her door and another by the reception desk. I would have assumed that the threat to Sofia was still active and insisted on taking the necessary precautions. I wouldn’t have just left, leaving nothing but a business card behind.
Shit.
Did I let my emotions take precedence over logic and training?
While I wait for the elevator to arrive, I curse my own weakness.
It’s been almost twenty years, for fuck’s sake. I shouldn’t still be allowing ancient history to affect me.
By some miracle, there’s a taxi driving by just as I emerge from the building. And thanks to the late hour, we’re able to make the drive from my place, through Central Park, and over to the hospital in under ten minutes.
From there, it’s a quick trip up to the fourth floor, where Sofia’s room is. Unlike when I arrived five hours earlier, the reception area is quiet. There are no patients in sight. Two nurses sit behind the reception desk, talking softly to each other. As I step out of the elevator, a custodian enters it, pushing his rolling mop bucket ahead of him.
Though I’ve been in plenty of hospitals over the years—more often visiting friends than for myself—I can’t remember it ever being this quiet before. But then again, how often do I show up at one AM instead of waiting for a more reasonable time?
The nurse I remember from earlier spots me and gives me a little wave. “You made it. I’m sure you remember where your friend’s room is?”
“I do,” I reply. “Is she still asleep, do you know?”
“She was the last time I checked on her. And that was just after you called, so maybe—” She glances at her watch. “Twenty minutes ago.”
“Okay.” I give her a small smile. “Thanks. I’ll just go take a look. I won’t wake her up, though.”
She gestures at the hallway that leads to Sofia’s room. “I’m sure you won’t.”
My footsteps echo quietly on the linoleum floor as I make my way down the hallway. Soft beeps and raspy coughs and the low hum of a TV filter from the other rooms as I pass. Sofia’s is the fifth one on the right, and my pace slows unintentionally the closer I get.
Is it hesitation because it was a bad idea to come? Reluctance to be drawn back into any kind of relationship, friendly or not, with Sofia? Or fear of the emotions I’ve locked away for years?
When I reach the doorway to her room, I stop before entering.
I take a deep, steadying breath.
I lift my chin. Set my shoulders. Remind myself that I’m not here because I’ve forgiven her, but because I would do the same for anyone in this situation.
Would I, though?
