Page 18 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
My nurse comes in to check on me and run vitals; I meet the doctor taking over my care when she rounds with the new night shift nurse. I’m finally cleared to eat something—though that something is broth and some green Jell-O (clearly the best flavor).
In between all those interruptions and me finding out what the survey says repeatedly, fatigue creeps back in and I nap.
And I’ve just allowed my lids to slide closed again when I hear the door to my room slide open with a soft whoosh, the sound of footsteps on the industrial-grade tiles.
Ugh.
What will it be this time?
Blood work? Making me pee to prove those parts are functional? The social worker who popped by earlier and promised to come back to discuss what support is available?
That would be really helpful, actually.
Since my house is…well, whatever my house is right now.
I open my eyes, tuck my elbows under me and start to sit up?—
A warm palm lands on my shoulder.
“Just me, Faye.”
Tingles spread all along my skin. Heat blooms in my belly. My head goes a little woozy.
Right. Not the social worker.
It’s Gray.
He drops into the chair next to the bed, reaches for the remote and turns up the volume.
“What are we watching?”
Seven
Gray
Fuck, how much of a sick pervert does it make me that the befuddlement on Faye’s face when I ask her what we’re going to watch makes me want to kiss her.
She almost died last night, for fuck’s sake.
And yet the tiny crease between her eyebrows, the wide brown eyes…
Cute.
Really fucking cute.
Except, I can’t think about how cute Faye looks?—
The only reason I’m here is to make sure she’s okay, that she’s settled and comfortable until her family comes in to take care of her.
I turn toward the TV, focus on the show…
For about two minutes before I realize it’s shit.
“You’re really watching this?” I ask.
“Um…” she says and her next words have me straightening and focusing more fully on her. Because they’re laced with sass—and I sure as shit wasn’t expecting one Faye Sullivan to be sassy or sarcastic. Sweet, yes. Gentle and kind, absolutely. But all of that along with the hint of an attitude—a hint that well, hints at more than just attitude underneath the quiet—and I know…
I’m so totally fucked.
