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.
30
Cross
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 fucker’—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 fucking 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.
But I can’t seem to follow. “What?”
“…your sister…”
I shut my eyes. I must be really out of it, ’cause I don’t think I have a sister. I focus my eyes on her big ones and swallow past the soreness in my throat so I can croak, “Where’s Meredith?”
“…get…sister, sir. Maybe she can…”
She turns to go, and I bat at my right hand with my left. “Turn this shit down. I can’t…think.”
I GUESS I pass out, because the next time I wake up, the halo around everything is dimmer and Lizzy is sitting in a chair beside my bed reading a magazine. I’m looking at her impassively, trying to get my brain to start working, when she jumps up and leans over me.