Page 68 of Lying Hearts

“Have a nice day,” he calls after me as I scoot past him. Then he says to himself, more quietly, “She can’t hear me. I’m an idiot.”

With my back to him, I look left and right, deciding which way to run. Is Room 323 this way or that? Thinking I can’t hear him, he calls out, “You’re ridiculously pretty!”

Surprised, I spin around. “Really? Thank you!”

His eyebrows fly up and the doors close.

Oh. Oops. “Sorry! I had no choice!”

Room 313. If Brendan’s awake, what does he remember? Room 315. Has he been as tormented as I have by images from last night? Room 317. Does he wish he’d never come back? Room 319. Is he wondering if I’m okay? Room 321. Is he even thinking of me at all?

Room 323

I stand in front of his door, breathing deeply to prepare myself for whatever I’m about to see on the other side. I’ve never seen someone I love after they’ve undergone surgery. I have no idea how he’s going to look, what I can expect, and I want to bring him light and hope, not fear and worry. I want him to know I’ll help him get better and stay by his side if he wants it, and leave if he doesn’t.

Truth? I’m scared. I’m not sure how he’ll feel when he looks at me. I might be a reminder of what happened. He might just want to be alone. Some men like solitude when bad things go down. The ‘man cave’ isn’t a joke. I know this from my years with masculine Christiano, and he and Brendan have one thing in common – neither of them is feminine in any way. Besides, Brendan just thinks I’m some girl he met tonight. Someone to put behind him to make this memory slip into oblivion…and me with it.

Will he do that?

Annie, you can’t stand out here forever. Suck it up. Be brave. Put your hand on the knob and turn the damn thing.

I open the door and hold my breath. It sticks in my throat when I see what awaits me inside. I freeze, very fucking confused. There’s a woman here. Why? Gorgeous, shiny dark hair cascades down her slender back as she leans forward in her chair, holding his hand and stroking it.

My flickering eyes cut to Brendan’s face. He’s unconscious, his skin unearthly pale. My heart shatters at the sight of him this vulnerable and weak. All because of me.

The unexpected and stunning woman turns around in what should be my chair, and stands up with all the grace of a professional ballerina. With one pointed and sweeping glance she scrutinizes me from top to bottom then back again. Suddenly I wish I’d dried my hair. This ponytail feels silly and these Converse sneakers are too young, too boyish next to her. The high-quality flowing hang of her gray slacks and black blouse, plus the expensive look of her heels, all scream that she’s rich. Old-money wealth. The stuff I know nothing about. Her almond-shaped brown eyes are highly judgmental and she’s standing by him with the comfort of someone who’s done it a thousand times. Fuck.

I am the first to speak, but all I can mutter is a single syllable.

“Hi.”

Hearing the deadness of my voice, I glance to Brendan again. I don’t like how this woman is looking at me. And the truth is, she’s in my way. I want to kiss him and thank him for what he did. Reluctantly, I look back to her and size up my options. It’s very clear she’s not going to let me near him. What the fuck.

She raises one eyebrow ever so slightly, as though she’s practiced and perfected how to shut someone down with this one subtle movement. “Can I help you?”

Yes. You can move.

Suddenly I remember. “Oh! I’m so stupid. Are you Mrs. Wells?”

She’s very surprised by the question, but the elegance with which she holds her neck high and long, doesn’t shift in the slightest. “Yes.”

“The hospital thought I was you.” Hoping against hope, I add, “Are you his mother?” Instantly I realize I shouldn’t have spoken so soon. I should have said ‘sister,’ because her eyes steel. I open my mouth, about to apologize, but she interrupts me.

“I’m his girlfriend.”

Oof. A hammer-punch to the stomach robs me of speech. I look down, breathless and dizzy. My mouth opens and closes. I’m trying to speak, not to stand here like this. I try again to say something, anything, to ask questions or scream, WHAT??!

All that comes out is a choking noise.

“Who are you?” she asks, stepping to her left and blocking my view of his face on purpose.

Looking around the room – at her body blocking him, at the heart monitor, at the dark TV screen – my eyelashes flap like frantic butterflies caught in a fatal web.

I’m The Other Woman.

I almost got your boyfriend killed.

I should be going now.