I hold my breath. I hold it for so long I almost start to see stars. Then I make another choice—the choice not to leave quite yet, despite knowing Cross has people here for him. “Would you like me to walk you to the OR waiting area? You seem like you could use some company and I’d like to see how the patient is doing.”
Cross’s pretty friend smiles. “That’d be great.”
She zips the jacket, igniting a sting of envy somewhere behind my breast bone, and we step into an over-bright hallway that smells of stale coffee and antiseptic.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. Stepping out into these halls with nothing to shield me. No one to protect me. If the cartel is on my heels… If Cross killed Jesus’s sister, Christina… If he didn’t…
I’m a fool for not just leaving, but I can’t seem to walk away.
All of a sudden I notice Cross’s friend is looking at me, and I realize she doesn’t know where she’s going. I’m the ‘nurse’. I’m supposed to be leading us.
“Oh, the OR waiting room. Sorry.” I rub my eyes. “Long day.”
Her gaze trails down my clothes, and her lips pinch together. “Are those dark stains from…”
I let my sorrow over all of this show on my face, and her expression matches mine.
“He’s had a really rough time,” she tells me as I lead us to the waiting area.
I don’t want to hear this from her…but I do. “What happened to him?”
She sucks her perfect lip into her perfect mouth. “He got into a motorcycle wreck a couple of months ago. It’s a really long story, but let’s just say he had some enemies. One of them caught up with him and…it really is a long story, but it led to his wreck.” She lowers her voice and moves her head a little closer to mine. “People think he wrecked because he was drunk. It kind of tarnished his reputation…not that he was thought of as a saint before.” She sighs. “Anyway, after that he had a lot of health issues. He was in a coma, then he had a stroke. His parents are selfish, awful losers and they never came to visit him at all.” Her shoulders rise and fall, like she’s taking a deep, composing breath. “It just makes me so mad, you know. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve what’s going on.”
I nod, feeling twenty things at once: the strongest of them are jealousy, want and loss. I’m not sure how much more Cross stuff I can stand to hear from this woman’s mouth, so I ask a self-serving question. “Why was he down in Mexico?”
She shrugs. “That’s the thing. I really don’t know. My friend Liz said he was going to some motorcycle convention, but her fiancé Hunter is suspicious. After we got the call that Cross was here, we all jumped on a plane together and talked about it. I think it’s even weirder because when we got here, another nurse told us Cross had arrived in the helicopter with a wife.” Her hazel eyes widen. “A freaking wife!” She shakes her head, and I get the feeling she’s trying not to get upset again.
“Have you met her yet?” I feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but I can’t help myself.
The woman shakes her head. “I’m not sure I want to, either.”
We walk in silence to the OR’s waiting room, and as soon as I open the door, I wish I wasn’t here. The place is filled with pretty, well-dressed people who I know at a glance are Cross’s friends. There’s a very familiar-looking guy dressed in slacks and a button-up; he’s got a goatee and hair that is neither red nor blond nor brown, but some mix of all three. Beside him is a handsome guy in a baseball cap, blue jeans, and a worn-out-looking t-shirt; he’s sitting in a plastic chair with his legs spread wide. He looks casual, but something about him just screams wealth! A pretty, dark-haired girl is latched onto his arm, practically sitting on top of him; that’s how close their chairs are. Her eye-makeup is just as smeared as Barbie’s. She’s wearing skinny jeans, an over-sized white sweater, and charcoal Chucks, and she’s got her eyes trained on some double-doors topped with a sign that says ‘ICU’.
When I see that, my stomach twists.
I stand there, feeling like I just swallowed a ball of cotton. My blood-crusted clothes cling to me, and I think my heart is going to explode if I can’t get my hands on Cross—right now.
And that’s when I know: I have to leave. I’m too involved. I’m living in a fantasy.
I’m so grateful that I’m out of Mexico. I’m grateful for Cross’s arms around me when I told him my story, even if at the moment I knew him as Evan. I’m sorry and grateful and confused at how he took two bullets for me…but I’m living in a fantasy. Whatever I think this is—it’s not.
I don’t even know this man.
And if I did know him, it would be wrong. So wrong and weird.
Whatever you think this is—it’s not, I tell myself.
Tears start falling, but I keep on moving. This time, I’m not turning back, no matter how much I might want to.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I wake up with an IV in my hand and pull it out. I’m itchy, hot, and I feel like I’m floating. I know what this means. I know where I am, and I remember why. I also know I’m alone in this room. I can’t see red-blonde hair, and I don’t smell her, either.
The IV machine starts its beeping—‘put your IV back in, you f**ker’—and I decide I’m going to unplug it from the wall. The adjustable bed is sitting me up, and I don’t really think about why that is before I grip the bed rail with my right hand and agony rips through my shoulder, so bad it leaves me gasping on my back. The lights on the ceiling are spinning like teacups. Teacups at the fair…right? Or is that Disney Land?
A nurse comes in, she’s fussing with the machine. I can’t make out what she’s saying. I don’t f**king care. I think the IV was in my left hand but she takes my right one and I’m dizzy but I know her game.
“You think…I can’t…take it out with this…hand?” I try to raise my left.
She gives me a look I can’t decipher. The room is way too bright and she’s all eyes—a creepy aberration all in white.
All in white…like a bride.
“Where’s…my wife?”
“Your wife hasn’t been here.” Again, those eyes. They’re big and green. Like ones I know. “…the police…” she’s saying.