He should have been thrilled. That was exactly what he’d been waiting to hear, wasn’t it?
Bellissime was home, not New York City. There, he could return to his horses, his quiet, peaceful days at his villa, and go back to his life of polo games, rugby matches, and social events. Someone would put out his clothing for him, make sure his bathroom always had toothpaste and fresh towels, and he wouldn’t have to do a thing for himself.
The thought was . . . vaguely dissatisfying, and it shouldn’t have been. He set the ring down on a nearby table, troubled. Part of him wanted to stay here in New York, to see if he could become more independent. But he no longer had Taylor. She would probably never speak to him again, and if she didn’t, he wouldn’t blame her. He’d been an ass, like Rex had always said. And being here in New York without Taylor? It didn’t have the same appeal.
Actually, it sounded pretty awful.
Loch rubbed a hand over his face again. He already missed her. And he couldn’t get over the nagging feeling that he was making a big mistake. He grabbed his wallet and headed to the door, still sweaty from his run. There was no sign of Taylor in the hallway, which was disappointing. He’d been hoping he’d leave and see her there, and seeing it empty hurt.
He left the hotel and went to Rex’s favorite street corner, looking for advice. Rex would have words of wisdom—they might burn like acid, but they were always on the mark.
But Rex wasn’t there. His corner was empty.
Loch was alone.
He returned to his hotel room, and again it felt dead and empty. He sat on the couch, where Taylor liked to curl up. It made him ache to see the place without her. To think that her smile would never light up the room again.
For a man so sure that he wasn’t in love, it shouldn’t have bothered him nearly as much as it did.
***
Taylor had to open two new credit cards to charge a plane ticket to visit Sigmund, but she did anyhow. Turned out the guy lived in Milwaukee, not upstate New York like he’d told her. She’d talked to his mom, explained that she was the online friend he was so messed up over, and then they’d both wept a little. Sig’s mom didn’t blame Taylor, for which she was incredibly relieved, and she was supportive of Taylor coming to visit.
Taylor herself wasn’t looking forward to it, but it needed to be done.
It was late in the evening when her plane finally landed, and later when her taxi made it to the hospital. She found the floor and headed down the hall, looking for the right room. To her surprise, the woman seated in front of Sigmund’s room door reading a magazine was no more than ten years older than Taylor herself. She looked tired and frail, her smile thin as she got to her feet.
“You must be Taylor.” She extended her hand. “I’m David’s mom, Donna.”
Sigmund was David Brooks in reality, but Taylor couldn’t think of him as anything but Sig. She nodded, feeling uncomfortable. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s bitching about the hospital food, of course. And he’s upset at me because I’m hovering.” She grimaced and then pressed a trembling hand to her cheek. “Of course I’m hovering. He’s all I’ve got.”
“Of course,” Taylor said soothingly. She squeezed Ms. Brooks’s hand. “This must be so hard for you. Is there anything I can do?”
The woman’s smile was wan. “Convince him not to do this again?”
“That’s my goal.” She didn’t know if she would achieve it, but she’d damn well try. “Can I get you anything? Do anything?” Taylor looked around helplessly. “I should have brought flowers—”
“They won’t allow them,” Ms. Brooks said. “And I might sneak down and get a cup of coffee, if that’s all right with you. They’re going to keep him here a few more days for evaluation, and I don’t want to leave.”
“Of course.” Taylor gave her a warm smile. “Take all the time you need.”
The woman nodded and picked up her purse, then headed down the hall. Her steps were tired, her shoulders hunched, and Taylor’s heart ached for her. She turned to the door, knocked softly, and then opened it.
The room inside was white, cold, and bland. A tray of uneaten hospital food sat on the bedside table, and the TV flickered in the corner of the room but no sound was on.
In the bed was a boy who seemed far too young. Maybe fourteen or fifteen.
Jesus.
Here she’d thought—well, she’d assumed—that Sig was her age, maybe a year or two younger. He was almost half her age. Just a kid. He had shaggy brown hair, a thin face, and the same small, rounded shoulders his mom did.
He looked over at her with a bored gaze and then his eyes widened. He sat up. “Tay?” There was a look of mixed horror and shame on his face.
“Hi, Sig.” She gave him an awkward smile and wave. “I wanted to come and visit you once I heard what happened.”
He slumped back down in the bed. “I didn’t want you here.”
“Because I’d find out that you weren’t who you said you were?” She moved to the side of the bed and slung her backpack off her arm. The motion knocked the bedside table over, and she had to surge to grab the tray before it spilled in his lap.
Sig chuckled, sitting up a little. “Well, if I didn’t think it was you before, I’m sure it’s you now.”
“Har de har.” But his laugh made her feel a little better, and she sat down next to him. “How come you lied? About living in New York instead of Milwaukee? And your age?”