By the end of the day, I knew three things.
One, surviving getting shot was not nearly as dramatic as people made it sound. It was mostly pain, humiliation, tubes, nurses asking if I had passed gas yet, and the slow discovery that every inch of my body had been involved in the injury, including places that had no right to complain.
Two, Georgia was stronger than me.
She stayed.
Through the doctors, the updates, the pain meds, the moments when I woke confused and the moments when I pretended not to be. She sat in that chair with her ring on her finger and a brave face on, reading bridal blogs on her phone like normal could be forced back into the room if she held the door open long enough.
Three, Destiny Rourke was going to be the death of me.
Which was impressive, considering the bullet had already tried.
Georgia left just after seven.
Her mother had been texting all day, begging her to eat something hot and take a shower. Georgia refused twice, then let Callum talk her into going when he promised two prospects would stay near the hallway and the ICU nurse would call if anything changed. She kissed my forehead before she left, smoothing her thumb across my cheek like she had the right to be tender with me.
She did.
That was the problem.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said.
“You don’t have to rush.”
Her smile trembled. “I know you think that sounds considerate.”
“It is considerate.”
“It sounds like you’re trying to give me permission to leave.”
I didn’t answer fast enough.
Her eyes lowered.
Then she adjusted the blanket at my waist, picked up her bag, and walked out with her shoulders straight.
Guilt stayed behind.
It sat in the chair after she left.
Occupied the room.
Watched me breathe.
I closed my eyes because I was tired of looking at it.
That was how Destiny found me.
Or how I let her think she found me.
I heard the door open. Soft. Careful. The kind of quiet a person used when they did not want to disturb a sleeping patient or a sleeping lie.
Her steps came closer.
I kept my eyes shut.
Coward.
