I let my eyes drift to the stack of scrubs on the bed. Blue cotton. Hospital issue. Thin. Practical. Real.
Then it hits me all over again. I’m leaving here with him. Not to my apartment with the unpaid rent and the empty fridge and bills spreading over the coffee table.
With Alek.
We have to make the domestic partner lie believable enough to keep this whole disaster from swallowing me.
I let out a rough breath. “This entire situation is insane.”
“Yeah.” He drags the visitor chair closer and sits.
No fake reassurance. No pretending otherwise.
Oddly, I appreciate it.
“I need help getting dressed,” I mutter after a second. “Every time I sit up, my head does cartwheels.”
His ears go pink.
“Are you sure there isn’t a friend you want to call?” He clears his throat, eyes fixed somewhere near the blanket instead of my body. “I’m happy to help. I just don’t want you thinking I’m using the situation to take advantage of you.”
The fact he even says it twists something inside me.
Most men would leap at this setup. Vulnerable woman. Hospital room. No backup. Or family nearby. Not one person to storm in and ask hard questions. I know men who’d jump at this opportunity. Every woman does.
You learn fast or you get eaten alive.
Alek sits there trying not to look at me and offering to call his mother.
I close my eyes for a second.
“My friends are in Bozeman,” I say. “Mom and I moved here for treatment. I stayed after…” The sentence catches. I force it the rest of the way out. “After she died.”
He doesn’t rush to fill the silence.
Good.
The room three floors above in the cancer ward had enough pity to choke on for three lifetimes. Nurses. Doctors. Neighbors. Casual strangers with softened voices and awful eyes.
I can’t stand those eyes.
Alek gives me none of it.
“I remember you mentioning your mom,” he takes my hand and rubs my palm with his thumb, “at the market.”
I close my eyes. “Really?”
“I remember most things you say.”
The words should sound smooth. They don’t. They come out awkward, plain, embarrassingly honest.
Which makes them worse. Or better. I can’t tell anymore.
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “My mom can come, if you want. Seriously. She’d probably bring snacks.”
“I think I can manage your scandalized modesty.” A short laugh slips out before I can stop it. My head punishes me for it.
His shoulders drop an inch. “Walk me through what you need.”
