Saturday, May 27
There’s a soft knock at my door before it clicks open, and a figure—broad and handsome and painfully familiar—darkens the threshold.
I push myself up in the hospital bed. “Doctor.”
The door clicks behind Dr. Antoniou and he turns to me with a look of total annoyance. “God, city people. Why would I lie about being your rheumatologist?” He punctuates this by taking two very noisy pumps of hand sanitizer from the dispenser by the door. This feels like a rhetorical question, so I just sit up a little straighter in bed, smoothing a hand over the back of my head. My curls are completely stretched. I haven’t brushed my teeth in . . .
Why do I care?
With a shake of his head, he crosses the room and sinks down into the chair that Liv had spent most of the morning occupying while I was transported from the room to various other floors around the hospital where my body was examined, X-rayed, pinched, pricked, and frequently left to wait in really cold hallways. Underneath his long, lean frame, the chair looks cartoonishly small. He slides forward, locking his eyes on mine. “How are you, champ?”
Fucking hate that word.
I almost hate him. Almost.
Sebastian and Marco look a lot alike, especially right now with Dr. Antoniou not in any of his usual medical garb. I blink twice to make sure I’m not imagining it. But it’s all still there, all the hurt in my chest, when my eyes refocus. “Um, I’m okay? A little better.” I point at the IV drip over my shoulder. “They’re giving me The Good Stuff.”
He laughs. “They better be. You’ve had one hell of a time. How do your joints feel? Your muscles?”
“Stiff. But not as achy as before.”
“And your head?”
“Better.” We fall into a tense, awkward silence. I keep my eyes fixed on the thin blue blanket stretched over my legs. He’s watching me with a look halfway between concern and pity. Eventually, I ask: “How was your trip?”
“It was nice.” He nods. “Wonderful. I heard you’ve had a very eventful month.”
I drop my eyes immediately. “Did he tell you that?”
“Your sister, actually.”
“Traitor,” I mumble.
Dr. Antoniou laughs softly. “I’m happy you took my advice to get out more.”
“Marco is very persuasive.”
“He is. He’s charming.” Sebastian nods, pulling his lips into a sloping frown. “I think your sister has spoken to him—given him an update on your situation.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say softly. “I relinquished my phone to her.”
“I’m really happy you told him,” Sebastian says. “I wish you’d been honest from the beginning.”
I shake my head. “I knew that would happen—I knew if he knew I was sick, we wouldn’t have ever spent the last month the way we did—that he would feel different about me, fundamentally, as a person. And then . . . then he wouldn’t have ever pulled me out of myself.”
Dr. Antoniou makes a noise in the back of his throat. “You didn’t want him to see you the way everyone else has started to see you.”
I nod. “Weak. Incapable. Stalled.”
He draws his brows together, knitting them in a look of gentle admonishment. “Is that how you see yourself?”
I yank my gaze away and direct it toward the window. It’s pouring rain out, and I imagine poor Liv fighting against an edgy, soaking crowd on her hunt for a decent hoagie. “I really don’t need you to be my therapist right now.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He stands to leave, smoothing his hand down his khaki-clad thighs. He turns back to me, one last time. “By the way, just because you feel something does not mean it’s true. Just because Marco thinks everyone sees him as a massive failure and embarrassment doesn’t mean he is. Would you agree?”
I nod again.
“Okay. So, when I tell you that just because you feel like your life is over, please consider . . .” He bobs his head side to side. “Please consider that maybe it’s not.”