Page 25 of Manhattan Heart

He’s known his heart is damaged for three fucking weeks and not said a word to me.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

I’m livid. And terrified and about to throw up.

Only, I don’t.

I remain outwardly calm, with my mind going in nine million different more anxious directions.

It’s not important. The time he’s known before me.

His heart.

Oh, my god. I can’t think.

“Baby, come here to me, please.”

He has his back to the headboard, the covers pooled around his waist, his bronzed chest holding his beating heart inside is displayed beautifully and the emotion locked in my throat grows monstrously larger as I knee walk over to him so Gray can pull me onto his lap.

“I don’t like when you’re quiet. I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

“I’m glad you had that physical,” I say quietly. The outcome of finding he needs surgery on his heart by another…more dire way puts violent shudders down my spine and Gray holds me closer, stroking a hand down my back, he kisses my temple like I’m the one with a broken heart.

I’m devastated.

Shocked.

Numb.

He’s the one with something wrong with him, yet he’s comforting me.

Hasn’t that always been the way with us. Me the weak one, unable to cope with any kind of bad news and Gray the rock.

I inhale slowly, refusing to let myself be drowned in panic.

Friday is two days away.

Two days’ time a doctor will fix his heart.

The talking goes on for a long time. Our tiredness evaporates and we pull on pants, and me a robe, and we sit in the kitchen and drink tea.

I hate tea.

Gray hates tea.

But we keep it stocked in the pantry for his mom.

Finding out my husband has a bad heart calls for tea.

I kiss his bare shoulder when I place a white cup in front of him.

Gray doesn’t let me move, he hooks his arm around my waist and keeps me in the space between his legs.

“I swear this is routine, baby. It sounds worse than it is.”

“Grayson…” my voice cracks, meeting his eyes. “Your heart is not routine. Your heart is so fucking precious to me.”

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