Page 93 of You Owe Me

“What about recovery time?”

“Full recovery is typically two to three weeks. But you should be able to resume light activities within a few days.”

Light activities. Right. Like my life has ever involved anything that qualifies as “light.”

“Any restrictions?”

“No heavy lifting, no strenuous exercise, no… intense emotional stress.” He gives me a pointed look. “This procedure requires your heart to heal properly. That means rest, Maverick. Real rest.”

I almost laugh at that. When was the last time I had real rest? When was the last time I went a full day without fielding calls about the company or managing someone’s IOU or solving problems that other people are too lazy or scared to handle themselves?

But I nod like it’s a reasonable request. “Understood.”

“I’ll need someone to drive you home Saturday. Someone who can stay with you for at least twenty-four hours post-discharge.”

Ainsley. Of course, he wants Ainsley there. The responsible girlfriend who makes me eat kale and monitors my medication.

The same girlfriend who can’t know about this procedure.

“My grandfather,” I say instead. “He’s expecting me to visit this weekend anyway.”

It’s not entirely a lie. Pops has been hinting that I should come see him soon, make sure everything’s running smoothly with the company transition. He doesn’t know I never actually transitioned anything, that I’ve been running his business from my apartment again.

But that’s a different deception for a different day.

“Good.” He makes notes on his tablet. “Family support is important for recovery.”

He doesn’t need to know that my family support will consist of me, myself, and a hotel room somewhere far enough from campus that I won’t accidentally run into anyone who might ask uncomfortable questions.

“One more thing,” he adds, fixing me with a serious look. “This isn’t optional anymore, Maverick. Your heart rate variability has reached a point where we’re looking at significant risk if we wait. I’m not trying to scare you, but I need you to understand—this is happening whether you like it or not.”

“I get it.”

“Do you? Because you have a history of thinking you can manage everything through sheer force of will. This isn’t a business deal you can negotiate your way out of. This is your body telling you it needs help.”

The lecture is unnecessary. I’ve already made the decision—made it the moment I walked into this building, really. Everything else is just logistics.

“Friday morning,” I confirm. “What time?”

“Seven a.m. Pre-op starts at six.”

Seven a.m. on a Friday. Most of the campus will still be asleep, which means less chance of anyone seeing me check into the hospital. And if I time the lies correctly, I can be on the road to “visit Pops” by Thursday night.

Perfect.

“Any questions?”

Just one: How do I disappear for three days without the people who love me realizing their trust in me is completely misplaced?

But that’s not really a medical question.

“I’m good,” I tell him.

He spends another ten minutes going over pre-op instructions—no food after midnight Thursday, shower with antibacterial soap Friday morning, and bring someone to drive me home. Standard surgical protocol for a procedure that’s anything but standard.

When I finally leave his office, my phone shows two missed calls from Sebastian and a text from Ainsley:

No thanks necessary. Love you!

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