Chapter 13
RAPHAEL
The doors of the clinic closed behind her with a soft hydraulic sigh. I helped Belle adjust herself carefully into the passenger seat, setting the paperwork on her lap like it was an assignment she hadn’t fully agreed to complete yet.
I started the engine. For several blocks, neither of us spoke. I replayed the waiting room in my mind. The phone call. The shift in her posture. The way her voice had softened and sharpened at the same time.
“Who were you speaking to?” I asked finally.
“What?”
“In the waiting room, on the phone, who were you speaking to?”
She didn’t look at me. “No one.”
That was inaccurate. I tightened my grip slightly on the steering wheel.
“Belle.”
She exhaled slowly. “It’s handled.”
A low sigh of displeasure left me. “If you are seeing someone, this arrangement will not function.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Excuse me?”
“If there is another partner involved—”
“Do you honestly think,” she interrupted, incredulous, “that I would have agreed to marry you this morning if I had a partner?”
As the light turned red, I stopped the car and turned to fully look at her. She held my gaze without flinching. Her hair was pulled back loosely. The crutches rested awkwardly against the door. The ring caught the light between us.
There was no deception in her expression, only disbelief, and something faintly offended.
“No,” I said finally.
“No?” she repeated.
“No. I do not believe you would.”
She folded her arms. “Good.”
The light changed. I pressed the accelerator. She shifted slightly in her seat.
“You are not involved with anyone?”
She studied me. Maybe I was being needy, but I required clarity. While I didn’t quite understand what we were doing, I knew I didn’t want her seeing anyone else.
“Are you asking if I’m available?” she asked.
“I am asking if there are external attachments.”
She huffed a humorless laugh. “External attachments. God, you’re ridiculous. I am not seeing anyone.”
“Are you attached to anyone?”
She hesitated. “What kind of question is that?” The pause was brief, but real. “My life is complicated,” she said.
“That was not the question.”
“I don’t have a partner. I’m not seeing anyone, or even dating anyone,” she snapped. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
That was sufficient.
“Good,” I said.
She glared.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “You are unbelievable.”
“You still haven’t answered me.”
We drove in silence again. I was beginning to doubt an answer was coming, but then she said, “It was my dad.”
The word landed. Something in my chest loosened, but not completely.
“In the waiting room. You stepped away. He is why you stepped away?”
“Yes.”
“You appeared distressed.”
She stared at me like I was speaking another language.
“He thought someone stole his remote,” she said flatly.
I did not respond immediately. That didn’t make sense.
“He has dementia. He lives at Long Creek Assisted Living Center. Sometimes he gets confused . . . and thinks people steal his remote or wanders off, ya know that whole thing. I put a locator on his remote,” she said.
“Oh.” That was all I could say. This is not what I was expecting.
“And I walked him through following the beep.”
I processed that. The image was unexpectedly vivid. The way her voice softened for him and her presence had remained steady made sense.
“Is that why you were smiling when you returned?” I asked.
She blinked.
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You were,” I said as she cocked an eyebrow at me. “I’m sorry about your dad. That must be hard.”
She looked away. Silence again. I tried to let it rest there. The hospital came into view ahead. I pulled into the valet parking and moved to get out.
“You don’t have to come in,” she said quietly.
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I can have a friend take me later.”
“We are already here.”
She turned toward me fully. “I don’t need to go right now.”
“It’s just imaging. Are you nervous?”
“No,” she shot back at me quickly.
I exited the vehicle and moved around to her side before she could argue. I opened her door before she could protest again.
“I can walk,” she said.
“You can,” I agreed. “You should not.”
Inside the lobby, the front desk was already busy.
“I’ll get a wheelchair,” I told her.
“Raphael.”
“It will be faster.”
She opened her mouth to argue again, then closed it. “Fine,” she muttered.
When I returned with the wheelchair, she looked at it like it had personally offended her pride. “I’m not broken,” she said quietly.
“I know. You are healing.”
She hesitated, then lowered herself carefully into the seat.
I adjusted the footrests without comment and pushed her toward intake.
The motion felt . . . steadying. I was ready to sit in the waiting room next to her, but they took her back quickly.
Too quickly. I was left standing in the lobby with no immediate task.
I do not enjoy idle waiting.
I sat for approximately thirty seconds before standing again. Then I began to pace measured strides between the coffee machine and the bank of windows overlooking the parking lot.
I did not like that she was back there without me. I did not like that someone else was assessing her body, making decisions about her recovery, and I was not present to hear them. I told myself this was excessive, but it did not change the feeling.
An hour passed. I checked my watch three times. Each time, it had moved less than I wanted it to.
A receptionist approached with a small paper cup. “You look like you could use this,” she said gently.
I took it. “Thank you.”
“She’s in good hands,” the woman added. “Your wife is being well taken care of.”
The word hung between us. Your wife.
For a fraction of a second, instinct kicked in. I almost corrected her.
Then I stopped.
No.
She was my wife.
The thought landed with unexpected weight and clarity.
“Yes,” I said finally. “She is.”
The receptionist smiled and walked away. I remained standing there for a moment longer, the coffee cooling in my hand.
My wife. Just the thought. Not an arrangement. Not a contract. Not variable.
My wife. It’d been so long since I thought about hearing those words.
The doors to imaging opened shortly after. An orderly rolled her out in a wheelchair, a stack of paperwork balanced in her lap. Her hair had fallen loose around her shoulders again. She looked tired, but she was smiling. Relief flooded through me before I could suppress it.
I crossed the room immediately. “I’ll take over,” I said, already reaching for the handles of the chair.
She nodded. “Your wife did great. Results will be sent to your orthopedist.”
“I’ll make sure she gets home safely,” I said.
Your wife.
The word slipped into place naturally this time.
“She’s lucky to have you,” she replied.
I did not respond to that. I was looking down at Belle. She was staring up at me with an expression I had not seen before.
“You’re taking good care of your wife now?” she murmured.
“Yes, I will take excellent care of my wife,” I said evenly.
The words did not feel performative. They felt . . . correct. Her mouth curved slightly. Something warm settled low in my chest.
I began pushing the wheelchair toward the exit.
Outside, the air felt warmer than before. The world continued normally. And yet something in my internal landscape had shifted.
I had married her for practical reasons, yet standing there in a hospital lobby, claiming her without hesitation, I realized something disconcerting.
I did not want this to be temporary.