That fear was in the room with us.
I saw it in the way she kept her face calm.
In the distance she put between one touch and the next.
In the way she refused to let her eyes drop below where they had to go for work.
It made me want her more.
It made me hate myself more.
Two things could be true.
“Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No.”
“Shortness of breath?”
“No.”
“Chest pain?”
I looked at her.
“That a medical question?”
Mistake.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
The silence caught fire.
There it was.
Everything.
The grave. Cabo. Santa Monica. ICU. Her voice in the dark. My name in her mouth. My name. Not Nurse Rourke. Not some idea of me she had outgrown. Dylan.
She felt it too.
I knew she did.
Her pupils widened just enough. Her lips parted slightly before she pressed them together. That loose piece of hair slid along her cheek, and I had the stupid, vivid thought of wrapping it around my finger.
Then she stepped back.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s a medical question.”
Good girl.
No.
Not good girl.
Wrong thought.
Wrong everything.
