Chapter 12 #2
I sat on the floor and pulled him into my lap, rocking him for a little while.
“I know, baby,” I murmured, my own tears blurring my vision.
The helplessness pressing on me was suffocating.
There was nothing worse than seeing my baby in pain and not being able to relieve it.
I would’ve taken on his pain myself in a heartbeat.
But with that not being an option, all I had were the tools the doctors gave me.
Those aren’t the only tools, my conscience whispered.
An hour later, Henry’s pain medicine and warm bath had helped enough that he was able to sleep.
I didn’t expect Whit to still be there, but when I entered the kitchen, he was just wiping down the counter.
“Thank you,” I said, my weariness evident in my voice. “I appreciate you doing this.”
He slung the damp dish towel over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, studying me again. “You look exhausted.”
I laughed. “Thanks.”
He gave me a wry look, tossed the towel aside, then took my hand and pulled me to him, wrapping his arms around me. I melted into him, slipping my arms around his waist and pressing my cheek to his chest.
God, it felt so damned good just to be held, comforted for once, to feel like everything was going to be okay. I don’t know how long we stood this way. But for just that short space of time, I wasn’t scared or overwhelmed or alone.
At some point, Whit rested his cheek against the top of my head. His arms around me tightened. And what had been a comforting hug suddenly became something more. My fingers splayed on his back, feeling the corded muscle beneath his shirt.
There was a shift in the air between us, a charge that ignited. His heartbeat accelerated, matching my own. Our breath synced, shallow, quickening. A warmth unfurled inside me, want and hunger and longing I hadn’t experienced in years. Desire. Pure and unmistakable. I wanted him. Needed him.
His hands drifted down to my hips, his fingers curling into fists, gripping the fabric of my sundress. In my mind, I saw him pulling it over my head, tossing it aside, kissing me breathless, taking me right there on the kitchen table…
In reality, he let out a low, strangled groan and stepped back, putting distance between us. His gaze stayed fixed on the floor, as if meeting my eyes might break something open.
“I should go,” he practically growled, his voice rough.
A shiver raced through me at the deep rumble of his voice. “Whit—”
Before I could tell him it was okay, that I wanted him too, he strode from the kitchen without looking back. A moment later, the apartment door closed.
I gripped the back of a chair to keep from sinking to the floor, holding on until the rush of warring emotions I experienced at where things had almost gone and then his abrupt departure had passed.
When I could feel my knees again, I drifted into the living room, hoping I’d see him sitting there on the couch, his back stiff, his hands clasped like before. But he wasn’t there. And a great, gaping hole opened up in the center of my chest.
“Oh my God,” I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “Get a grip, Zellie.”
As I showered, I tried not to think about how his arms felt around me, the heat of his body against mine, how badly I’d wanted to feel his kiss, how longing had surged through me, how I burned for his touch.
But the fantasy that had played in my mind in the kitchen replayed in my head, leaving me gasping and shuddering as my hands explored my body as I imagined his would.
But it wasn’t nearly enough.
I fell into a fitful sleep, my dreams haunted by fantasies of Whit instead of nightmares. Which was almost worse. The dreams of Whit were torture. I woke several times, tangled in my sheets, drenched in sweat, until finally exhaustion dragged me under.
I didn’t feel the bed shaking at first. But as I slowly came awake, I realized my mattress was shifting, moving horizontally in a slow rhythm as if someone was standing beside the bed, pushing the side of the mattress. And then it abruptly stopped.
I lay still, staring at the ceiling, muscles tensed, adrenaline spiking, preparing me for fight or flight as I waited to see what would happen next. Minutes passed. Nothing.
My eyes drifted shut again.
Then something grabbed my leg and shook me so hard that my left hip rocked up off the mattress.
I bolted upright with a gasp, my heart slamming against my chest, fully expecting someone to be standing near my bed. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a shadow slinking along the wall. I clicked on my bedside lamp.
No one.
I blew out a shaky breath and ran my fingers through my hair.
“What a freaking night,” I muttered, extricating myself from my sheets, and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.
I glanced at the clock.
3 a.m.
I groaned. “Seriously?”
That’s when I heard Henry whimpering.
I launched to my feet and raced to his room. “Henry?” I said, flipping on his light as I burst inside. “Baby, are you okay?”
He was thrashing around on his bed, writhing in pain.
“Oh, God,” I breathed, rushing to scoop him up. I somehow managed to find my shoes and my keys despite my panic. By the time we were halfway to the elevators, Henry’s whimpers had turned into agonized moans.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said, stabbing the down button. “It’s okay. Mama’s got you.”
“Zellie?”
I glanced behind me to see Whit, hair mussed, barefoot, wearing only jeans and T-shirt, sleep still clinging to him.
A strangled sob was all I could manage.
Whit pivoted instantly and ran back toward his apartment. The elevator doors opened, and I rushed in, punching the button for the main floor.
When the doors slid open again, Whit was already waiting.
How the hell had he gotten downstairs so fast…?
“I’m driving,” he said, jogging ahead to open the front door.
The drive to the ER was a blur. All I could remember was sitting in the backseat of Whit’s car with Henry in my arms while Whit drove at breakneck speed.
Oddly, there was no wait in the emergency room. Henry received pain medicine and was admitted to a room in minutes.
And then I lost all sense of time.
There was only the endless waiting while the doctors worked to figure out what was causing Henry’s pain.
They sedated him, transfused him, poked and prodded and scanned him.
And all I could do was sit by his bed, questioning every choice I’d made, berating myself for not doing something more—whatever the hell that would’ve been.
Finally, after what I deduced to be two days based on the number of trays of food that had been brought to me but which I hadn’t eaten more than a few bites, Henry started to improve. A day later, we were discharged with still no official diagnosis but lots of sympathetic smiles and well-wishes.
“I need to give you my address and insurance information,” I told the patient coordinator who brought us our final paperwork. “We didn’t have a chance to do any of that when we arrived.”
She smiled. “No need. That’s already been taken care of. Your friend gave us your contact information.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Do I need to pay my co-pay before we leave, or will you just bill me?”
She gave me another smile. “No, that’s been taken care of.”
“What’s been taken care of?” I asked, shaking my head in confusion.
“The bill.” She turned her clipboard to me. “Just sign here,” she said, tapping the x on the release form with her pen before handing it to me.
My mind still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the bill was paid, I did as instructed.
She patted my shoulder when I handed back the clipboard. “You take care now, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured. “Thank you.”
“I’ll send the nurse in to wheel Mr. Henry to the car,” she told me. “Your ride is already here.”
I blinked at her, confused. I hadn’t called anyone.
Whit must’ve arranged that too. Part of me bristled—here he was once again arranging things without consulting me first. But another part of me, the very tired, worn-down part of me, felt a rush of gratitude and pleasure. I’d needed help, and he’d been there.
But when the nurse rolled Henry out to the patient pickup area, it wasn’t Whit waiting for us. A man I’d never seen before stood next to a sleek, black sedan, dressed in a black suit and chauffeur’s cap.
“Now, that’s a nice ride,” the nurse said as we approached the car. “Look at you going home in style, little man.”
Henry grinned up at him and bumped the fist the nurse held out. “Bye, Darnell! Thank you for taking care of me!”
“I’d say ‘anytime’,” Darnell told him, locking the chair’s wheels in place, then pointing a finger at Henry, “but I don’t want to see you back here anytime soon, you got it?”
Henry’s smile broadened. “Yes, sir!”
“I’m sorry,” I said to the driver, “there must be some kind of mistake.”
“Are you Zellie and Henry Dupont?” he asked. When I nodded, he opened the back door. “Then there’s no mistake, ma’am. Mr. Proffitt instructed me to pick you up and deliver you to Dawes House.”
I could only stare at him in disbelief, but Henry had already climbed into the car and was buckling into the booster on the seat behind the driver. “C’mon, Mama!”
I slid into the backseat, uncomfortable with the extravagance. “I’m surprised Mr. Proffitt didn’t pick us up himself,” I told the driver. “I didn’t even know he had…” I paused, not sure what the correct term was for the man driving the car, so I finished with “this car.”
The driver smiled at me in the rearview mirror. “Yes, ma’am. He typically only uses the driving service for business, but he was called away to New England this morning and wasn’t able to come for you himself.”
“New England?” I repeated, wondering what business he had that far north.
“Yes, ma’am,” the driver replied. “He’ll be using the service up there for his needs. Little out of my territory.”