Page 68 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I wait for him to correct her. To explain. To defend me. To say anything that acknowledges the past five days weren’t just a fever dream I invented.
He says nothing.
And in that nothing, I hear everything I need to know.
I shrink further, wishing I had my snow globe to fidget with. Or maybe to throw. Her perfume is making my head spin, too strong.
His father’s entrance makes Sebastian’s posture go even more rigid, if that’s possible.
“Son.” The word carries weight, authority, and generations of proper breeding. Everything about him screams old money, from his perfectly trimmed silver hair to his Italian leather shoes.
Sebastian’s mother fusses with his tie while his father clasps his shoulder with that precise pressure that speaks of country club handshakes and board room politics. The choreography of reclamation, parents marking their territory, erasing the wilderness from their son, one designer touch at a time.
They move around Sebastian, straightening, adjusting, reclaiming. Not once do their eyes drift my way. I’ve vanishedfrom the narrative. An inconvenient plot point best forgotten, a chapter to be edited out of the official family history.
I pick at a loose thread on the hospital blanket, counting the loops to keep from screaming. One heartbeat. Two. Three. The thread unravels a little more with each tug, just like my grip on reality.
He could say something now. Anything. “This is Bailey.” Three simple words that would acknowledge I exist beyond the function I served.
His mother’s manicured hands smooth invisible wrinkles from his shirt, her wedding ring catching the light. “Poor Rebecca’s been calling non-stop. She’s devastated.”
The thread comes loose in my fingers. I wrap it around my index finger until the tip turns purple, watching the color change like a personal science experiment in blood flow restriction. The numbness spreads from my finger to my chest. A welcome anesthetic.
Sebastian’s shoulders tighten. The muscle in his jaw twitches. But he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t turn.
The silence stretches like a rubber band about to snap. His mother’s perfume makes my eyes water.
“Rebecca’s on her way.” His mother says. “She caught the first flight when she heard. Should be here within the hour.”
My fingers go numb around the thread I’ve been fidgeting with. The world narrows to a pinpoint of perfect, awful clarity, like looking at an approaching disaster.
“Isn’t that wonderful, darling?” She beams at him, all perfect teeth and calculated warmth. “She was so worried. Poor thing barely slept.”
Rebecca. Here. Coming. My fingers twist the thread tighter, watching the purple deepen to blue, then an alarming shade of bloodless white.
The thread snaps. Blood rushes back into my fingertip, bringing pins and needles. Just like my heart. Just like my brain. Everything tingling, everything wrong.
Sebastian’s still frozen, that muscle in his jaw working overtime. I want to scream at him. Want to tell his mother about finding Rebecca in bed with someone else.
Want to throw something. Want to set this whole perfect tableau on fire and watch it burn. Instead, I count ceiling tiles and try to remember how to breathe. One. Two. Three. In. Out. Repeat until the urge to shatter glass subsides.
His mother’s eyes slide over me. Her perfect eyebrows lift a fraction. “What about…?”
“Miss Monroe was quite helpful,” Sebastian says. Like I was his Uber driver. His wilderness tour guide. His temporary inconvenience.
“Indeed.” His mother’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes, staying firmly anchored in the lower third of her Botox-smooth face. She pulls out a checkbook, the leather cover embossed with gold. “Thank you for helping my son. Now, about compensation?—”
“No need.” My voice sounds foreign, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “Just doing my job. Getting cargo from point A to point B.”
Sebastian flinches. The movement’s tiny, probably imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t spent days learning his every microexpression. But I see it. Good. At least he remembers enough to hurt.
A nurse appears, interrupting this exquisite torture. “Ms. Monroe? We need to take you for those X-rays now.”
I nod, grateful for the escape. The orderly wheels me away from Sebastian and his mother, their matching expressions of relief barely concealed as I leave their rarefiedair.
The next few hours blur together—X-rays, blood tests, a trauma specialist. I answer questions on autopilot, my mind stuck in that curtained alcove where Sebastian sits with his mother, probably already being reclaimed by his real life.
When they finally wheel me back, the hospital’s shift change has come and gone. Late morning sun slants through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor. I brace myself to face Sebastian and his mother again, rehearsing neutral responses to avoid further humiliation.
