Page 63 of My Merry Mistake
“Everythingisfine,” I say. “It was a really bad migraine. It started off ocular, then, you know—did what it did.”
“Because of stress.”
“I mean, yeah, but that’s normal.”
“Raya.” He scoffs. “That is not normal.”
“Are you a doctor now?”
“I’m quoting him.”
“They blow things out of proportion all the time.”
“No, they don’t. Your doctor wasn’t exaggerating. But I have a feeling you’re not going to listen to him either.” He huffs out a frustrated breath.
I go still. “What are you talking about?”
“I heard the doctor tell you that you need to, you know, make some changes.”
“Youheardthe doctor . . .?” I’m confused. I cock my head and look at him. “Like, you were eavesdropping?”
“Yes, okay.” He straightens. “I know it was a crap thing to do, but I was in the hall, and I heard him say your name, and . . . it’s not like the curtains keep the noise out.” He says this quickly, like he knows it’s a lame excuse. But then he says, “I did it because I was worried about you.” He puts his hands on his hips and glares at me.
My chest is a gong and someone just hit it square in the center.
“You don’t worry about anything,” I say. “You’re the guy who doesn’t have a care in the world.”
His eyes narrow like he wants to object, but when he doesn’t, he validates my assessment.
Still, he’s not backing down. “He said you need some time off.”
“Yeah, well, doesn’t everybody?”
“Everybodydidn’t just have a severe . . . health . . . episode—” he stumbles over the words, like he’s not sure what to call it.
“It wasn’t a ‘severe health?—’”
“Stop being so stubborn! You know what I mean.” He moves closer. “You need to go easy on yourself.”
Ha. Like I have time.
“Raya. Please. It was . . . scary seeing that happen.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I’m horrified they might give me away. Because the idea of “going easy on myself” is so tempting and so foreign, it starts a battle in my brain.
I draw in a slow breath, then bring my eyes to his. The concern is so clear, it catches me off-guard. What is happening? This isFinn.
“Why do you even care?” I ask. “It’s not like we’re friends.”
It isn’t until I see the words register on his face that I realize how cold they sound. This man just rode in the back of an ambulance through Chicago traffic, then sat in the waiting room for almost two hours to make sure I’m okay—if we’re not friends, then what are we?
I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat.
“I . . . Finn, I didn’t?—”
“Yeah, no. You’re right.” He cuts me off. “That’s a fair point. We’re not, really. I’m sure your real estate boyfriend will make sure you do what you need to do for yourself.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
“If he ever shows up.”
