Page 61 of Really Truly Yours

“Nope. I’m good.”

“I’m fine, girl. I am.”

I make an x with my arms over my chest. “No. Somebody needs to stay.”

Is that a sigh I hear? A pair of them, maybe?

Gray comes and sits on the window seat. Our knees nearly touch. “I’ll take you home so you can get some rest, but I’ll come back for the night. In the morning, I’ll pick you up again.”

“No thanks.” I slip the handle so the footrest pops up.

He lowers one eye into a squint. “That chair will not be kind to you.”

I shrug. “It would be worse for you.”

A snicker comes from Donny’s end of the room. “I’ll tell you both what. The hotel is close by. How ’bout I’ll sleep here and you kids can go use my room.”

Air whooshes into my lungs. “Donny!”

Gray throws his head back and laughs. He twinkles his magic straight into my eyes and thumbs toward Donny. “Reformed, eh?”

“He…yes, well, he…”

Donny squirms lower on the mattress. He finds a button and the mechanical bed hums. “You kiddos figure out sleeping arrangements. I need me some rest.”

I am too old and I’ve been around too much in my life to blush over a silly jest, one that doesn’t even rate in comparison to the ones I’ve heard or been on the receiving end of. “I’m asking for a blanket.” I make a beeline for the hall.

“Hey, snag one for me while you’re at it.”

“Yep.” I pull the door and light floods the room.

“Unless you want to share, Sydnee Lou?” Gray’s voice holds onto a rumble of amusement.

Not gonna happen, bucko.

Once in the hall, the heat on my face takes hold. Couple of rats.

A different nurse provides two pillows and two blankets. I pitch one of each to the big guy folded up on the bench window seat. The pillow hits his obnoxiously square jaw dead on, where he grabs it and takes it to his lap. “Hey now.”

“Gotta be quicker than that, Smith.” And he calls himself a player.

A ball player, that is.

He grins, and I also intercept a lip twitch from the closed-eyed patient.

I set the bathroom door slightly ajar with the light on inside and turn off the fixture above Donny.

I’m like a dog, turning in circles trying to get things just right before dropping into a ball on its bed. Twist, turn, pillow-punch. There. I let a long breath trail out.

My lids fly up. “You and I should switch.”

“Mmm?”

Undoing my hard work, I pivot toward the poor guy—my eye—who’s compressed into a painful-looking wad. I move closer and keep my voice low. “We should switch. You’d have more room in this chair.” The window seat isn’t one of those full-length ones that some hospitals have.

“I’m fine.”

“Really, Grayson. The chair reclines, and there will be more room to stretch your legs.”