Page 72 of My Merry Mistake
“Who did you talk to about what the doctor said?” she cuts in, moving out of my grasp.
“What? When?”
“When you wereeavesdroppingon a private medical conversation.”
I press my teeth together. “I didn’t mean to do that. I was just in the wrong place at the right time, I guess. I’m sorry about that. It wasn’t on purpose. I was getting drinks for your family, and I heard him say your name. I—I don’t know, I listened.” I replay the moment in my mind. Itwasa shady thing to do. “I didn’t mean to, Hart, I swear. I was just . . . really worried.”
She waves me off like my apology isn’t important. “Who did you tell?”
I’m confused. “I didn’t tell anyone.”
“Then why did Brian just put me on a four-week leave?” As she says this, her voice breaks slightly, and I can see the tired, raw emotion in her whole face—her whole body.
“He did?”
“Yes!” She raises her voice. “Because of you!”
“Raya, I didn’t say anything. I don’t know anything about that,” I say honestly.
She stops for a minute. “Then why did he do it? You were the only one who heard what the doctor said.” It’s an accusation, not a question.
“Well, I’m not the only one who thinks you should take some time off after what happened.” I cross my arms. “If you remember, half the building watched them take you away in an ambulance.”
She seems to accept that as a fair point, but she’s still bothered. “But you were the only one who knew!”
I soften my tone. “I didn’t say anything to anyone.”
I can see she’s fighting back tears. She turns away from me, arms crossed, but one hand rubbing her forehead.
“What am I going to do?” Her tone sounds defeated. Desperate. Lonely.
I shift my weight. I want to pull her close, tell her everything’s going to be okay, prove to her that she’s not alone. I want to be the guy she can count on, but how do I do that when she’s intent on not letting me?
She turns back to me. “Four weeks? What the heck am I supposed to do with four weeks off?”
I lean against the wall. “Rest.”
“Ha. Okay. Likethat’seasy to do. Just ‘rest,’” she says, as if it’s a made-up word.
“I’m guessing work will still be there when you get back,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. She’s in a defensive stance, worked up, but something is off. The image of her terrified face flashes through my mind. She needs to lie down.
The elevator down the hall opens, and Dr. Marshall walks out. When he sees us, he turns in our direction.
“Miss Hart!” he says. “Good to see you upright.”
Raya is still flustered, but she forces a smile. “Yes! Thank you for your help yesterday. I’m feeling much better.”
If I had to guess, that’s a half-truth. She’s better than she was, but she’s still not one-hundred percent. If she’d just slow down for five minutes, she’d realize it too.
“Slow” is not in Raya’s DNA.
“I’m actually surprised to see you here,” Dr. Marshall says. “You need to be home, resting.”
“Oh, no,” she says. “I’m doing so much better. And I’ve got a few projects that are time-sensitive.”
Doc’s bushy eyebrows pull together. “Oh. Has something changed? I thought you were on leave.”
