Page 124 of Love Sick

Has he heard something? Did she say something? Am I Grace’s Rebecca, reading into things because I’m so desperate for her to be interested? Should I start sending her cat memes?

I hate this needy, insecure person I’ve become.

“I don’t know, man,” Maxwell says. “You can tell when people are into each other, and I just don’t see it with her. She’s—I don’t know. Unfeeling.”

Unfeeling?

That’s the last word I’d associate with Grace. Grace feels. Sure, she hides behind safer expressions of emotion, but the feelings are there below the surface. I can see them in her eyes. She just never fucking tells me what those feelings are.

Maxwell’s dark gaze slides my way. “You remember your first day, when she showed up to L&D all fuming about her senior resident with zero perception of the hierarchy? Like she was owed something. She was just…entitled. Then at Christmas, you drove her to the party to be nice, and when I asked her about it, she pushed you away like being associated with you was embarrassing. Hell, the day we met her, she blamed us for something we didn’t do. It’s like Grace only cares about what’s happening toher, howshe’sperceived, whatshefeels, and nothing else matters.” Maxwell takes a sip of his beverage. “Just be careful, is all I’m saying.”

I think about what he’s saying, but then I think about other things. Grace making me flashcards. Grace sending me a picture of a coffee mug praising DOs after she sensed my insecurities. Grace offering me comfort when my patient died. Grace waking up early to help me round.I want your days to be good.

She isn’t unfeeling at all. She’s sweet and thoughtful and kind. But she’s also hesitant to let people see her—the real her—­especially when she started this new life amid a pile of nasty rumors. She’s paranoid about her reputation, and she’s wildly selective in who receives her affection, almost like she’s…afraid.

There’s a reason for it all.

Something happened to her, didn’t it? I’ve suspected it for months. I even asked her about it that night at my apartment. My memory flickers over the stuttered story of her past relationship, the one I’m sure has far more detail than she gave me.

So now I’m left with two possibilities. Either she doesn’t love me—a terrible option I’m not willing to explore—or this thing in her past is keeping her from admitting it.

Do I fall back on my trusty rules and follow her cues, or do I apply a bit of pressure?

I don’t know what to do.

“I need to go home,” I say.

Maxwell winces. “Nah, bro. Don’t leave. I’m not trying to make you mad—”

“I’m not mad,” I say. “I just—I need to go home.”

His reply is lost on me as I make my way to my truck, then stare at my steering wheel for several moments before turning the engine.

Back at the apartment complex, I find myself heading toward Grace’s apartment instead of my own bed, like she’s my north star. My home.

“Come in!” she calls at my knock.

I push open the door. “You just let strangers into your apartment?”

“I know your knock, Julian.” Her voice comes from the bedroom.

My smile is instantaneous. There’s that prissy tone.

She’s curled up in bed, surrounded by pillows, hair in a damp braid down her chest.Bridgertonplays on the small TV over her dresser.

She pauses the show. “I thought you were going to hang with the guys.”

I lift my shoulders. “I wanted to hang with you more. Can I sleep here?”

Her huge grin eases the knot in my stomach. “Come cuddle me in my time of need.”

Laughing, I strip to my boxers and crawl into bed beside her.

Under cover of darkness later that night, she snuggles deep in my arms. “Thanks for being here, Julian.” Her voice is dreamy, half asleep.

I squeeze her closer, turning my face into her neck. “I love you.”

The following silence turns jagged, cuts deep. It leaves wounds, filleted open, bleeding.

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