Chapter 20
CASSANDRA
We take the private entrance the hospital reserves for donors and VIPs. I am neither. I am a girl with a visitor band around one wrist and a red ribbon around the other.
“Ninety minutes,” Damien reminds me at the elevator.
“I know,” I say, touching the ribbon at my wrist. It’s strange how quickly it’s become a comfort to me to have it there. The doors open with a soft ding.
The ICU hallway hums. The air smells like bleach and coffee that’s been sitting on a burner too long. I give my name at the desk.
“Clara Hewitt was moved from ICU this morning,” the nurse says, checking her screen. “Vitals were stable, and she’s no longer under sedation.” She looks up and gives me a warm smile.
The tension that was wrapped around my body loosens. “Her room number?”
“Room 423,” she says.
I get back on the elevator and take it to the fourth floor. I hurry to her room, stopping at the doorway to take her in.
Clara is propped up on a stack of pillows. She’s pale but not like the washed-out gray from before. The oxygen cannula is gone and there are less wires around her. The heart monitor draws its green line like a steady signature.
She turns her head and gives me a little smile. “Merry almost Christmas.”
My gut unclenches in one quick, ridiculous drop. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been holding myself together until my body let go.
I sanitize my hands, tug the mask down, and go to her. Her fingers are warm when I take them. She squeezes—firmly this time.
“You scared me,” I say.
“I’m hard to get rid of,” she shoots back. It’s our language: fear disguised in jokes.
A sliver of her incision shows at the edge of the gown. My eyes catch it, and I quickly look away, kissing her temple instead. She smells like soap and rubbing alcohol.
“What has the doctor told you?” she asks.
“Doctor said the surgery went well,” I reply, keeping it simple. “After they closed, your rhythm dipped. They brought you back fast. You’ve been lightly sedated and closely monitored. You’re vitals are stable, and they moved you out of ICU. Today’s a good day.”
Her eyes shine. She nods once and swallows hard. Brave is one of many words I would use to describe her. I feel it flex its strength beneath my hand.
She glances toward the door. “They mentioned the balance has been taken care of. Cassandra, how did you do it so fast?”
I pull the lie and lay it out like a neat napkin. “The bank expedited the request. A temporary line. Paperwork’s a mess, but it’s moving.”
I keep my voice even, practiced. I let it rush a touch, like I’m tired of explaining it.
She gives me a look that is all big sister, all knowing. “Banks don’t sprint at Christmas.”
“I found the right person,” I say with a shrug. “I also made an absolute pest of myself.” I sit a little straighter, as if good posture can hold the story up. I squeeze her hand. Privacy. Precision. Truth. I cling to the two I can keep, patching up the third with “necessary.”
She exhales, her shoulders dropping a fraction. “I still don’t like you owing anyone on account of me.”
“You’re alive, that’s all that matters,” I say.
A tiny smile lifts one corner of her mouth.
“I brought you something,” I tell her, digging into my tote. The little photo album is frayed at the edges from being handled so much. I climb into the visitor chair and prop it on the bed between us. “Look.”
A photo of the two of us in cheap Santa hats, age twelve and twenty, grinning like idiots in the kitchen of the apartment with the broken radiator.
Her eighteenth birthday pizza with the too-sweet sauce and the candles stuck into the pepperoni.
My college graduation with my cap sliding off because I forgot the bobby pins.
We flip slowly. We laugh and then both wince because laughing tugs at stitches and sore places.
A nurse peeks in, sees the album, and gives a thumbs-up. “Good medicine,” she says, and leaves us to it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out. It’s a message from Damien.
All good?
Yes. She’s awake. Stable. Will update.
Good. Ninety minutes. Eat.
Clara arches a brow at me. I slide the phone away and keep my face steady. “Dinner with a coworker,” I say, which is not completely untrue.
Her voice lowers. “Cass, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I’m glad I’m alive, obviously.” She laughs dryly. “But your finances… they’re going to be wrecked. How are you ever going to pay off this loan?”
I tell a partial truth. “I got a job with better pay. Strict schedule. It’s temporary, but it’ll cover us for now.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Is it safe?”
“Couldn’t be safer.” I think of the gunshot wound on my arm, covered by the sleeve of my blouse. I can only imagine what Clara would have to say about that.
A doctor comes in. She’s wearing a mask, but the crinkle around her eyes lets me know she’s smiling. She runs through pain control, activity, fluids, the numbers we’re aiming for.
“We’re encouraged,” she says, which is cautious optimism in doctor language. “If your markers keep trending this way, we could be looking at discharge shortly after the new year.”
“Home for the new year,” Clara says. “God, I can’t even believe it.”
I pull a pen from my bag and write down what the doctor says on the little note pad by the bed. It gives my hands a job while my eyes try not to water. The doctor leaves us with a wave and another smile.
Clara watches me cap the pen. “If this temporary job hurts you later, we walk.”
“We walk,” I promise.
We hook pinkies. It feels ridiculous. It feels like armor. We both breathe a sigh of relief when we let go.
A food tray rolls by the open door. The smell is a crime, and a sudden wave of nausea nearly chokes me.
“You should eat,” I say, breathing through my mouth.
“You okay?” Clara asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Hospital food is a hate crime.”
She snorts and then winces. I rub her shoulder until the line on her forehead eases. The queasiness lingers like a bad song.
I help her sip water. I adjust her pillows. I scroll through the TV and land on a nature show with wolves. “You’ll fall asleep in three minutes,” I tell her.
“Bet you I make it to five,” she says, cocky with a grin.
“High roller,” I quip and sit. My leg starts bouncing on its own. I glare at it like that will make it stop.
“If the bank falls through,” she says quietly, “we’ll figure something out. I can pick up shifts once they release me.”
“Stop,” I say. “Concentrate on healing. I’ve got it covered.”
She studies my face and puts the question back on the shelf. It’s only a matter of time before Clara gets the truth out of me. But not today.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Damien.
Café downstairs—want anything?
My brain thinks coffee. My stomach turns hard in refusal.
Tea, I type back. Ginger if they have it.
Another wave of nausea slams me, sharp and dizzying, my stomach churning like a storm.
I bolt to the bathroom, barely making it to the sink.
Cold porcelain steadies me as I grip it, retching faintly, the sickness fading as fast as it came.
I splash water on my face and catch my breath, my reflection pale under the fluorescent lights.
I step out. Clara’s brow is furrowed in concern. “Cass, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile. My mind races. I can’t remember when my last period was. Stress, gunfire, Damien’s cock claiming me could explain the delay. Or… no. The thought causes my pulse to spike. I touch the red ribbon under my sleeve, the silk suddenly feeling heavy.
Clara reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Thank you for getting me here.” Tears prick my eyes, hot and sudden. I blink at the ceiling, swallowing hard.
“You owe me a boring Christmas next year,” I tease, voice steadying.
“Next year, boring. Got it.”
I hold onto her hand like a lifeline while the heart monitor beeps, my thoughts racing.