Page 22 of All the Forbidden Things
“Yes, I need more pain meds, and can you pass me my mirror and toiletry bag.”
No please. No thank you. She's a bitch, and I actually feel embarrassed on my wife’s behalf for her bad manners.
The nurse reaches for Whitney’s IV drip but pauses when she spots me. A rapid flush spreads across her chest, up her neck, and settles over her cheeks. Her hand rises to rest in the middle of her cleavage as she draws in a breath. “Oh, Mr Young, you made me jump. I didn’t know you were here.”
Whitney’s head immediately turns my way, her hand shooting up to touch the bandage around her head. My heart momentarily hurts for her. My wife’s entire self-worth is validated by her looks, and despite recent revelations, I know her well enough to be sure that she’s hating me witnessing her like this.
Her face is still bruised, but the colour has faded to various shades of yellow, light blue and green. The swelling has subsided considerably, and she’s at least recognisable now, unlike the last time I saw her almost a week ago.
“Max, how long have you been here?” Her eyes dart to the nurse, then back to me.
The nurse is adding something to Whitney’s IV line, and I remain silent as I watch her.
“There, that should make you a little more comfortable. I’ll leave you in peace until the doctors get here.”
She turns from Whitney and gives me a small smile.
“Thanks,” I offer.
Resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, I rub my index finger across my lips and observe my wife.
The nurse leaves the room.
My heart pounds.
My stomach churns, and I feel sick.
Whitney pulls stuff out of her toiletry bag while I watch her. Her eyes focused on anything but me.
“You wanted to see me?” I speak first.
“Yes,” her green eyes finally meet mine.
“Why?”
“Max, please . . .” She starts to cry.
“Please what, Whit? Why’d you wanna see me? Last conversation we had, you apologised for not loving me enough, told me our daughter possibly wasn’t mine, and then you left me for Alix Gardener.”
“Alix is dead.” She sobs.
“I’m well aware of that. Lost control of his car while driving jacked up on coke and crack, and, if the police report is to be believed, receiving a blow job from you.” I recount the details Ihaveallowed Aaron to share with me.
She continues to sob. “Why are you being like this, Max?”
“Being like what? Honest? Speaking the truth? Sorry, I forgot that’s not something you’re familiar with. But when most people . . . when most people have a conversation with someone they care about, they tell the fucking truth!” I stand and walk towards her bed. Tears stream down her face, but I honestly don’t give a fuck.
Harsh? Fucking sue me.
I didn’t come here planning to get angry, but fuck it, I am.
“So, you finally gonna be honest and upfront for the first time in our piss-poor excuse for a relationship and tell mewhyyou wanted me here, or am I gonna leave?”
I don’t know how I manage to keep my voice low, but I do. What I’munableto control, though, is the seething anger that has welled up inside me.
“I need your help, Max, please, please don’t be like this. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
“Which part are you sorry for? The fact you lied? The fact you used me? That you cheated? Or that your fuck boy died?”
