Page 8 of Wicked Ruin

Dora leans in and takes my hand, and I'm startled by the warmth of it. She's usually moving from one thing to the next, always somewhere else to be, but this time, she sits down on the edge of the bed.

“There's something I want you to understand, Bridget,” she says, “and it's something I remind all of my patients on this floor because I think everybody needs the reminder.” I stare at her name tag because I don’t want to look into her eyes.

“Yes?” I say, my heart beating fast.

“A great many things are out of your control right now, and I won't pretend otherwise. But it is still up to you whether you say yes to a procedure, whether you trust a doctor, whether you move forward with a treatment plan or not, whether you want a visitor or not. These decisions are yours. And it is my job not only to make sure that you're okay, but also to make sure that other people honor your decisions.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

“Now.” She winks. “Let's get you in the shower, give your hair a proper wash, and I think you mentioned you have some makeup?”

“I do.”

“Excellent. Let's get you ready to visit your friend, sweetie.”

Forty minutes later, my hair is washed and dried, falling in soft, glossy waves around my shoulders. If nothing else, at least my hair looks good. There's not much to be done about the bruising on my arms, but I’ve put on a little mascara and some lip gloss, and I'm actually starting to feel human again. Dora helped me change into a pair of shorts and a soft tank top instead of that god-awful hospital gown, and I've just settled back against the pillows when I hear footsteps and a deep voice in the hallway.

“Bridget Kavanagh? Right this way, sir.”

The door opens. My heart beats frantically as I wipe my damp hands on my sheets, and Dora’s eyes go wide. She catches herself and smooths her expression, but I look away fast because I'm going to break into a grin, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

How can he look so fucking sexy, holding a bag of soup under the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room? Dark trousers, gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular, inked forearms, collar open just enough.

Dora makes a sound beside me that she will deny later. Somewhere in the hallway, a chart hits the floor, and two nurses are standing on the other side of the door, whispering. I stare into the middle distance and think very hard about absolutely nothing.

“You're looking pretty good for a girl stuck in a hospital bed,” he says with a wink. A wink. My heart somersaults.

Declan.

“I try. Thanks for coming. My god, that smells divine. Have a seat.”

“Would you like me to find somewhere to put all of that?” Dora asks, eyeing the massive paper bag in his arms, which looks like it has weight to it. “What is it?”

“D'Agostino's,” he says, setting it on the tray table. “Italian wedding soup and a few others.” He proceeds to unpack four quart-size containers and three loaves of bread.

“Declan.” I stare at him. “Did you bring enough for the entire floor?”

“Maybe,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “I just started thinking—what if you weren't feeling that great and couldn't eat the meatballs or something, you know? Or maybe you wanted a different flavor, so it just… It seemed safer to have options.”

Dora bites her lip to hide a smile. “I'll leave you to it.” She pulls the door shut behind her.

“This is good stuff,” Declan says, already leaning over a container and inhaling. “This one's mine.” Placing it in front of him, he tears off a generous slab of bread and passes it to me without asking. Our fingers brush. I stare at the bread so I don’t meet his eyes.

I take a bite. It's delicious, all salty crust, warm and exactly right, the kind of comfort food I crave these days. I eat slowly, savoring it. My mother would have fussed over whether I wanted the meatballs or the broth or just the greens, and I love her for it, but sometimes the fussing is its own kind of exhaustion.

It feels easy and natural to eat with him. Not what I expected at all.

“So,” Declan says, settling back in the chair like he owns it. “You want to tell me more about why you’re in here?”

I’m very good at avoiding conversations about my health with him and have managed to do so, mostly, but he deserves the truth.

“Well. You know how my bone marrow’s fucked,” I say in terms I know he’ll understand. He stares. “Sometimes I have flare-ups and need transfusions. I just—” I pause. “I'm not doing very well right now, actually.”

“How not well?” His eyes darken as he tracks the bruising on my arms, his jaw tightening.

I don't mean to tell him everything, but it’s time to stop being vague. “Well, with Aplastic anemia, there’s not a lot of options for treatment, but we’re trying some experimental treatment. So far, so good.” He listens without interrupting, elbows on his knees, watching me with an expression I can't quite read.

“Well,” he says when I've finished. “That feckin’ sucks.”