“You know me. I’m always fine.”
“Pilar, come on. I want to know the truth.”
“I just miss you, is all.”
“I miss you too. You should really think about making some new friends too.”
She laughs, but it’s bitter. “Do you think I could find some friends under the couch or in the kitchen?”
I wince. She is basically a prisoner in her fancy tower. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was insensitive.”
“Don’t worry about me. My problems aren’t really problems.”
“Just because you are wealthy and don’t lack any physical comforts doesn’t mean you can’t have problems, Pilar.”
She sighs into the phone. “I called to check on you, not to get the Spanish Inquisition.”
I laugh. “Yeah. You’re only okay with giving me the third degree.”
“Speaking of which, did you speak to Chema?”
It’s my turn to sigh. “Yeah.”
“And?”
“He’s pretty pissed at me.”
“Were you expecting anything less?”
“No. I guess not. Do me a favor? Check on him if you can?”
“I’ll try, but you know Felipe—”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. Forget I asked. I’ll try to keep tabs on him with my gym rats, as you have so lovingly put it.”
“I miss you,” she says.
“Miss you too.”
She promises she’ll do her best to visit in a few weeks, but we both know better. Despite the lie, I’m glad for the call and the distraction from the boredom that is the dreaded hospital stay.
I’m notsurprised when Rory comes back. His white coat is gone, and I’m guessing he is off work late in the evening. The door to my room is open when he shows up, and he doesn’t ask to come in. He sits on a chair opposite me and leans back, his legs apart, while he bounces one foot on the floor, making his leg shake.
The armrest props his elbow up as he grips a pen. He clicks the pen once, then twice, but doesn’t say anything.
Being in the hospital gown without the armor of makeup or my knuckle-wraps, I shift in the bed uncomfortably.Say something,I think. Anything. What are you thinking, Rory?
The pen clicks again as his dark green eyes pierce through me. I open my mouth to break the hollow silence, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure how to explain this, or that I even want to. Rory swallows, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His eyes narrow as he waits patiently.
Another click of the pen.
The sound of it is so annoying, I want nothing more than to march up to him, snatch the pen, and throw it to the ground.
Click.
Mercifully, he finally speaks. “You didn’t have a stomach bug,” he says, and it’s most definitely not a question. I shake my head. “What is it?” he asks.
“I’m sure you read my chart already.”