“He was asking for someone named Meredith?” Lizzy frowns.
The surgeon nods, looking from me to Lizzy, like he simply can’t believe neither of us is named ‘Meredith’. He shrugs, looking around the waiting room once more before telling us Cross should be settled in the ICU in twenty or thirty minutes, and we’ll be able to visit him one at a time. “Wait here or in the ICU waiting room. A nurse will let you know when it’s time.”
“The ICU?” I speak before I think about it, and the surgeon’s eyes snap onto mine.
“Yes. The ICU.”
“But I thought he…” I shake my head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. “I thought it wasn’t serious. The nurse said…”
“What nurse?” the doctor asks. He looks peeved. Like he’s in a hurry and I’m keeping him from something.
“The nurse who called. She said he wasn’t hurt badly.”
The surgeon’s eyes narrow. “Our nurses don’t make phone calls about patients. Can you tell me what you’re talking about?”
I frown. I’m feeling…frozen. Like I’m in a state of shock. “He’s really in the ICU? I just…I haven’t even been worrying.” God. I feel like such an awful friend.
All I can think about is how Cross would feel about being back inside an ICU. I was with him so often after he woke up from his coma. Cross and I. Just Cross and I. He told me things he hadn’t told anyone…and…God, it breaks my heart to think he’s here again. Inside another hospital. Recovering again.
I bite my lip and turn away. Lizzy and Hunter keep talking to the doctor, but I need to find somewhere to collect myself. I notice Marchant noticing me, and he acts like he’s going to break away from the discussion to check on me.
No thank you.
I take off down the nearest hall I see. My emotions are like clothes being tossed around a dryer. I can’t tell up from down. All I know is that I’m hurt, and I don’t want to see Marchant Radcliffe or anyone else right now.
He follows me. Of course he does. I pick up my pace, till I’m practically running past doors and carts and metal structures like wine racks but laden with oxygen tanks, past a nurse wearing mint green scrubs when I can feel him closing in on me.
“Suri Dalton, slow the f**k down!”
I toss a blurry glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t curse at me! And go away!”
I don’t know why I’m so upset. I just can’t synthesize it. Then I remember—they said Cross was married—and it’s like something bursts open inside my chest, and I’m directionless and dizzy and distraught, and I realize what I’ve wanted this whole time: to be settled. I knew I wanted that, of course, but I didn’t know how much until right now. I think of Cross’s strong, stable arms around another woman and I feel like something is clawing at my heart.
Why don’t I have that?
Why didn’t he want me?
Why didn’t Adam care enough about me to change?
For a moment, I almost forget I’ve got Marchant Radcliffe on my heels. Then I can’t forget, because he’s right there on me, grabbing my arm.
I push away from him, and he pushes me up against the wall. His arms touch down on either side of me, pinning me in. His hand goes into my hair and I can feel him breathing, smell him breathing. Smell the vodka.
“Jesus, woman. You can move.”
I react irrationally, because in the moment, I’m grieving. Not just for the loss of any chance I might have wanted with Cross, but for the loss of what I thought I had with Adam.
I miss being coupled! I miss snuggling up to a warm body in bed. I miss being known. Being accepted and loved.
I blink at the beautiful man in front of me, and I push against his chest as I start to cry. “Go away,” I sob. “I’m upset!”
His mouth is on my neck so fast, I don’t know what hit me. “That’s exactly why—” he says as he bites me— “I’m not leaving you alone.”
He kisses me, and I kiss him back. My hands are all over him, grabbing at his hips, pulling him into me. He grabs my br**sts, my ass. His hand moves to my back, where his fingers dig so hard they almost hurt.
As he looks at me, his eyes grow stormy. Just like Adam’s used to. “You his girlfriend, Dalton?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Are you Carlson’s girlfriend?”
“Why?”
“Are you?” He looks pissed off.
“No.”
“You wish you were?”
“That’s not your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
“You’re crazy.”
“And you’ve got a thing for Carlson.”
“No I don’t. We’re just friends.” But I sound guilty.
His face goes from furious to disdainful in a second. He looks me up and down—scornful in his assessment. And like before, in the bathroom at the Wynn, I feel as if he can see every part of me I don’t like. His eyes return to mine, heavy with the verdict of his judgment. “I had pegged you for lonely and inexperienced, Dalton. Not desperate.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open, because I’m shocked. Not just by the meanness of his comment—although it is definitely mean—but because it snags me like an arrow in between the ribs. Because it’s true. I’m both lonely and desperate. How did I get here? I blink at him, and the hall around me seems to tilt.
“You’re an ass**le,” I whisper.
He glares, a smirking, petulant look that reminds me slightly of a child. Or a drunk. I close my eyes. He’s just like Adam. Nice guy, sober. Mean drunk. I’m single for mere weeks and the first guy who catches my eye is a mean drunk!
My eyes tear up again, and I think it’s probably good that I’m infertile—a failsafe, because apparently the only men I’m going to end up with are ass**les.
I rub my eyes and get a blurry glimpse of Marchant Radcliffe. He looks serious. Almost solemn. “You’re right,” he says. “I am an ass**le. Crippled Carlson’s probably a better choice.”
He shrugs, then stalks toward the elevators, and this time I know my mouth is hanging open.
6
SURI
I veer down a different hallway, wrapping my hand around my blouse and jerking hard as I let out a furious sob.
I look down to find my bra showing. It’s lacy and beige, and I don’t know when anyone will see it again. This makes me cry harder. And then I pass a man in scrubs and I realize…I’m half naked!