Chapter 12
“You ready?” Rory asks.
“For what?”
“We’re going home today.” He smiles warmly.
“We?”
“Yeah, well, I’m taking you home.”
“I don’t need any help, Rory.” I sound about as annoyed as I feel.
The scarf Dr. Ramirez and Sara brought over to cover my head helps a bit, but I’m not ready for him to see me bald.
“No, you don’tneedhelp, but I would like to see you home. Make sure you’re good.”
“Rory,” I let out a long breath.
“Please, Valentina. I worry about you being alone, and I’ll feel better seeing you settled.”
His brows are knitted together, and his longish hair is mussed. His boyish demeanor is long gone, replaced with sunken eyes like he hasn’t slept in a while. He’s been worried about me. Suddenly, my annoyance feels out of place. “Okay,” I relent. “You can drive me home, get me settled. But that’s it.” This surgery was more invasive, and I’ll have a larger scar than my other laparoscopic ones from before. I can anticipate more pain than before as well.
His smile is crooked, and barely a trace of his typically wide grin, but it’s something. “Thank you,” he says.
When we get to my apartment, Rory makes my bed and inspects my fridge. I know he is trying to determine if he needs to shop for me, and I hate that all I can be is angry.
We went from hot lovers to something else, though what that something is has not been defined yet. Is he my doctor and I his patient? Is he acting like a parent? Or worse still—am I hischarity case?Long gone is the sexiness of our first day together. I almost wish I had stuck to my original idea and not given him my number to begin with.
I don’t say any of this to Rory because ultimately, I understand he means well. He is caring and thoughtful and wants to take care of me. Now I’m mad at myself for being angry, and it’s giving me a headache.
The medication bottle rests on the counter, and I grab for it.
Rory doesn’t miss it. “Is the incision site hurting?” he asks.
“No. Just a bit of a headache,” I say. After taking two pills, I go to my room, and Rory follows. He kicks off his shoes and lies next to me.
If he’s going to insist on bugging me, then it is high time for him to give up some information himself. This couldn’t continue to be as one-sided as it has been so far.
“It’s time,” I say.
“Time for what?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me on your own, but you haven’t, so I’m forced to ask.”
“Ah,” he says. “You want to know about my scar?”
I nod. “You know more about me than I ever wanted you to know.”
“That wasn’t by design,” he says.
“I know, but if you’d like to tell me, I really want to know why your chest was cracked open.”
He turns on his side to look at me before he speaks. “I was born with a heart defect,” he says. “I have what’s called a pericardial patch on my heart.”
“That’s a pretty big scar if you got it when you were a baby,” I say as I trace my finger over his chest where I picture the scar under his shirt.
“Good eye. When I turned eighteen, it had to be revised. I was growing, and so was my heart.”