CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Whitney
H ome.
My bed.
It’s all I can think about as I pant through the pain of getting my clothes back on. “This sucks,” I say to Suri as she puts a jacket over both of my shoulders and helps me lower myself into the wheelchair.
I feel one hundred percent better—or, at least, that’s what I’ve told everyone here. That the pain in my side is less. The nausea from the antibiotics has been thwarted with yet another medication. But truth be told, I’m just listless. Any effort is too much, and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.
“She said give it a couple of days and you’ll be back to yourself,” Suri says as she gathers the bag full of my belongings for me.
“I know. And tell me what I owe you for all of this stuff,” I say as I motion to the new pajamas and the toiletries she brought me for my stay here.
“I didn’t buy any of it. Hardy did.”
Hardy.
The elusive figure who I swear was here, but I haven’t seen. The man I need to thank but who I don’t know how to. The person that Suri hints about, has a soft smile on her lips over, but doesn’t say much more.
“He bought all this?”
“He did. Or had someone buy it for him, but he didn’t want to search through your things at your place so he just bought what he thought you needed.”
My place.
I wince—let Suri think it’s because of the pain—when in reality, it’s because that means Hardy saw where I lived. Where I live .
At this point, does it really freaking matter? After all the things I’ve been through, that I put him through ... like ... whatever. I’m just grateful he found the place in time or else I might not be here.
The door pushes open and the nurse comes in with my discharge paperwork. She goes over it for what feels like the hundredth time, but that’s not what I’m worried about.
It’s the bill that’s coming for my stay that has me pushing to get out of here quicker than I should. I’m nowhere near ready to leave. I get lightheaded when I stand and sick to my stomach with each bout of pain that streaks through me. But another day—hell, another hour—only serves to bury me further in debt.
“Thank you,” I say as she hands me the folder of instructions and the bag of medicine to continue taking. A part of me wants to open the folder and see if there is a bill in here, and a very real other part of me knows the sight of the amount might just put me back in the hospital. “What happens with the bill? It just gets mailed?”
Her smile is quick as she glances over at Suri and then back to me. “That’s all been settled.”
“What do you mean it’s all been settled ?” My head is foggy. I must have heard her wrong.
“Settled. Just like it sounds.” Her smile is bright, and her voice is coddling. “Time to break you out of this jail.” She wheels me out to the curb where I assume Suri will meet me shortly with her car. But when I look beside me, Suri isn’t getting her keys out. Instead, she’s looking farther down the curb and directly at Hardy, who’s standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets and concern etched in every line of his face.
There’s something about him like this, standing there backlit from the light overhead as he stares at me, which triggers a flood of emotions.
Gratitude. Longing. Need. Relief. And then snippets of moments together flick through my mind.
His hands cradling my face. His voice begging me to be okay. His hand holding mine at my bedside. The whispered kisses on my forehead.
I struggle with what to say or how to say it. How to ask where he was when I know he was there. How to fathom that I did want him there—here—when that’s not normal for me.
“Hi.” He steps forward, the only time I’ve ever seen him seem hesitant. “You feeling better?”
“Yes. I . . . ”
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for getting me here.
Thank you for checking up on me.
But none of them come out, and I don’t quite understand why.
I was weak. I am vulnerable. And when you live a life guarded, protecting anyone from seeing you be either of those things, it’s easier to avoid them.
I think.
Perhaps.
But as I stare at Hardy in the exit to the hospital, I acknowledge that he saw both, and I’m not exactly sure why that unnerves me.
His smile is as quiet as his voice when he speaks. “Let’s get you home.”
I glance over to Suri who has her hands up. “He insisted,” she says, before kissing my cheek.
“Suri. I thought—”
“Call me if you need me,” she says backing away, smile bright and mischief more than apparent in her eyes.
What the hell is happening right now?