Chapter 2
1568 Words
2
Dany
I pull at my hand. He doesn’t let go.
“Who are you?” I ask. The room tilts and jars until it finally settles and crashes. The fog sweeps away.
I yank at my hand again.
“Let go.” I pull again.
My brain doesn’t know him, but that doesn’t stop my body from wanting him.
He clears his throat. “You, uh…” He stops, and I can see thoughts flashing behind his eyes, but I can’t decipher what he’s thinking. Finally, he lets go of my hand. My lips wobble.
“Why are you in my room?” My eyes open wide, as another fact hits home. “And why are you pretending to be my fiancé? What’s wrong with you?” My cheeks heat. Where’s Shawn? Why isn’t he here? Why isn’t my mother here? I look toward the door. What’s going on?
My body has never gone haywire for a man, and I don’t know why it has to start now.
He winces. “It’s not your room,” the man says.
I swing my head back to him.
“Ouch.” That hurt. Then, what he says sinks in. “Pardon me?”
He gestures behind him. “It’s not your room. You’re in a shared recovery suite. I was on the other side of that curtain.”
I look around. The hospital room comes into sharp focus. Bland pea green wallpaper. Generic painting of a woodland scene. A television. IV poles and medical apparatus. Curtains. And three hospital beds. All occupied.
On my right a balding man with papery skin and thick blue veins snores. To my left is a pretty, sleek-haired teenage girl with a bandage on her nose. She stares unabashedly at me. Her expression reminds me of a mischievous otter I once saw at the zoo. She’s peeking at me from the bed behind the man. The one on the metal chair who held my hand.
I clear my throat. Mortification washes through me.
“It’s a shared room,” I say.
“That’s right.”
“You’re here with her.”
He nods. “I’m here with her.”
“Hi,” the girl says. She waves at me.
I close my eyes. My mind has almost completely cleared and I’m rapidly coming back to my senses. I attempt to shake off the attraction I felt for this man. It was misplaced. He is not my fiancé. I only felt that spark, okay, flame, because I thought he was Shawn.
I snap open my eyes and look him square in the face.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please forget what I said.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry. I’m Jack.” He holds out his hand to shake. I don’t want to take it.
For some reason, it feels dangerous to take his hand again. Jack.
What if, when I touch him, that ember sparks into flame once more? Even when I know he’s not Shawn? No. I don’t want to find out what could happen.
“Daniella. There you are.”
Oh thank goodness. It’s Shawn.
He hurries into the room and steps in front of Jack’s hand, effectively blocking him out. Shawn sends him a peevish look.
I let out a relieved exhale. Shawn’s here. He’s wearing his usual Tom Ford suit and Ferragamo shoes. He’s immaculately groomed. Even his fingernails are perfect half-moons. A sharp contrast to the flannel-clad, rough-hewn, southern-drawling Jack.
“I’ve been looking everywhere. They didn’t tell me they moved you to the third floor.”
“You’re here,” I say. Tears start to fill my eyes. I blink them back. Everything will be okay now. Shawn’s here and I’m going to be okay and everything will be fine.
Jack looks between me and Shawn. Frown lines form on his forehead. His gray eyes narrow. I want to tell him to go away. I don’t like him witnessing this moment. My mind’s mostly cleared from the anesthetic and I’m embarrassed about what I said to him.
“Did you speak with the surgeon? What did he say?” I need to know. I have to know that I’m in the clear. That everything can return to normal.
Shawn clicks his tongue against his teeth. Something he does when he’s annoyed.
“I have no idea. I was on the phone with the office. I’m grinding non-stop on that multi-level parking bid.” He sighs and kneels at the edge of my bed. Then, he finally really looks at me. His face leaches of color.
“Jeez,” he breathes. He grimaces and his mouth twists like he wants to spit out a mouthful of milk that has unexpectedly curdled and soured on his tongue.
My chest twists. I wince. My hands flutter above my bandages. Suddenly, I feel n***d and vulnerable. The gauze and hospital gown don’t feel like enough cover. I tug the paper-thin hospital blanket over my torso.
“Okay?” I ask.
Shawn glares around the shared room. The sleeping man. Jack and the girl. He stands stiffly and scowls at the chair Jack is sitting on not two feet from my bed.
“Excuse us.” He pointedly looks at Jack. “Could you move?”
Jack gives me a long, measuring stare.
“Certainly,” he says in a slow honeyed drawl.
I turn my head.
My mouth is dry. I try to swallow the lump in my throat.
Shawn grabs the curtain on the ceiling runner and yanks it closed. I can no longer see the others. No sleeping blue-veined man. No mischievous otter girl. No Jack. I shake my head. Shawn’s here. I smile up at him.
“Thank you for being here,” I say.
It’ll be okay now. Shawn’s just shocked. It’ll pass.
He’s efficient in everything he does. He’ll get me home, help me recover from the surgery. Then, we’ll be married. This cancer thing is a quick blip. That’s what Shawn said. Plus, the doctors think this surgery will take care of it. No problem. No worries. I cut down the anxiety that tries to rise. It will be fine.
Shawn runs a hand through his blond hair. My mother always said his angelic good looks were the perfect counterpart to my English rose beauty. He starts to talk, then stops. Looks down, then up again.
I shift nervously.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I can’t do this,” he says.
I stare at him. I’m not sure what he means.
“God, look at you,” he says. “Look at you.”
I look down at myself. There’s dried blood. Some sort of ointment. Bandages. An ugly blue gown. An IV taped on. My hair is in a limp bun. I don’t know what my face looks like.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
He’s pacing the few feet of space at the end of my bed.
I try to sit up, but a tight stabbing pain stops me. I sink back down and take shallow breaths until the pain passes.
“What am I doing?” Shawn mutters.
My mouth is horribly dry and his pacing is starting to worry me. “May I please have a glass of water?” I ask. My voice is small.
He sighs. “Look. Daniella. I can’t do this. I’m not up for this. All this.” He waves his hands at me.
I try to swallow. Can’t.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to. I made casseroles to last for at least two weeks. And I sent your suits to be dry cleaned. The house cleaners were in, I had the carpets done…”
I drift off. The expression on his face is pained.
There’s a hard thud behind my rib cage.
“Shawn?” I ask. It comes out as a croak.
He flinches.
“Look. I don’t love you.” He glances at the gap in the curtain, like he wants to be anywhere but here.
His words crash around me, but I can’t catch ahold of them. Like I’m trying to clasp water and every time I close my hand it shoots away.
“What?” I ask.
I shake my head. He keeps on.
“It’s not the cancer, it’s me. The cancer has nothing to do with it. I don’t love you and I don’t want to marry you.”
He says the last in a rush. Then he stops pacing and stands at the bottom of the bed, staring at me. There’s a desperate pleading look on his face.
“You…but…” I swallow.
I finally catch his words.
And I know he said he doesn’t love me, that he doesn’t want to marry me, but what comes out is, “But what about the casseroles?”
The fifteen casseroles I baked and froze. Who’s going to eat them? There’s taco casserole, tuna casserole, hamburger casserole, tater tots casserole…
“Look. I’m sorry,” he says.
I look. And look. A heavy weight bears down on my chest and settles in.
“I’ve known for a while now. It’s obvious. We don’t fit. To be honest, Daniella, you’re boring. Other women have interests. Passion. They’re alive. You never argue, you’re never spontaneous, you don’t have any opinions, you think barbeque sauce on chicken is taking a risk.”
“A risk?” I ask. My throat is burning dry. I’m so thirsty.
“Look. Think of it from my perspective. Would you be attracted to someone who doesn’t have any career ambitions, or hobbies, whose idea of weekend fun is bleaching the whites, dusting the china, and going to a charity brunch? Look, it’s not the cancer. See? I don’t want to be saddled with a hothouse flower the rest of my life.”
A sharp jagged pain runs down my side. Spots start in my vision and I realize that I need to breathe. I suck in a hard breath. It hurts, like shards of glass.
“May I please have some water?” My throat is killing me.
Shawn shakes his head. “Daniella. Did you hear anything I said?”
The room is tilting again and there’s a ringing in my ears.
“Daniella?”
I nod. “Yes?”
“Look. I’m sorry. I can’t do this right now. I have to go. They need me at the office.” He sends me one final unhappy look, then turns and leaves.
- Writer
