“Of course.”
“Name was Trevor Gaines. Lived here in Worthington Heights. Taught math at Caldecott Junior High. Originally from—”
“—that’s enough. Thank you. Please let me know when you have the other information I requested.” I end the call in time to hear the rustling plastic bags and Astaire’s soft footsteps.
She deposits my leather duffel on a guest chair in the corner before placing my food and plastic cutlery on my tray table.
“Hope you’re hungry. Might have ordered too much …” She speaks in a comforting half-whisper, her movements fluid.
When I sit up, she adjusts the pillows behind my back.
I wouldn’t think to do these things for her if our situations were reversed. The fact that caring for others comes so easily to her does nothing more than highlight how wrong we are for one another.
“Astaire.”
She stops situating my pillows and rests a hand on my shoulder. “You need something else?”
I’m two seconds from telling her to stop doting so much when I change my mind and offer a simple, “Thank you.”
She waves her hand, like it’s no big deal, but it is a big deal. This means she cares about me more than she should. I should have sent an assistant for my things. Could have ordered my dinner and had it delivered. I never should have let her do this.
The love of her life’s heart beats in my chest.
I’ve never loved anything half as much as she probably loved him.
This entire thing is strange and tangled …
… which is why I can’t let it go any further.
Especially if I’m going to need her help with Honor in the future.
“Appreciate this, but you should go home now. Get some sleep. You have to work in the morning.” I slice into my chicken, avoiding eye contact because I can already sense the blanket of pity in her delicate gaze.
“Wasn’t planning to stay. I know you need your sleep.” She tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. “But, um … when I was leaving your place, I ran into someone …”
I stop chewing and glance over.
“Errol.” A micro-wince paints her soft features.
I take a satisfying stab at a green bean with my fork.
“That’s your brother, isn’t it?” She takes a step closer. “He said to have you call him. Said it’s extremely urgent.”
I chuff. “Not happening. But thank you for relaying the message.”
“He asked if I knew where he could find you,” she says. “And he asked my name, where I was going …”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing,” she’s quick to respond. “Nothing at all. I told him I had to go and I got on the elevator and left. I don’t know the history between you two or why there’s bad blood, so I—”
“—my entire family is bad blood, Astaire. And that’s all you need to know.” I rest my fork against the side of the Styrofoam container. I’ve lost my appetite.
“That’s a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think? You’re not bad blood.”
The way she says it, I almost believe her.
I want to believe her.
“Do me a favor and take off the rose-colored glasses for once in your life.” My tone is curt, my words unfeeling. I stare at the white board on the far wall where a nurse has written her name alongside a starry-eyed smiley face—as if that’s supposed to make me happy. “You’d be better served not idealizing me.”
Astaire’s stare is heavy, her presence paralyzed for an endless moment.
“You’ve obviously had a rough day... and I have work in the morning … I’m going to leave so you can rest.” Her voice is broken as she gathers her things and moves for the door. Stopping to linger, she adds, “I hope you feel better soon.”
With that, she’s gone.
I’ve clearly upset her, shown her a side of me she likely hoped she’d never see again, but it’s for the greater good.
Someday she’ll understand.
Twenty-Nine
Astaire
* * *
A hospital custodian mops the floor of Bennett’s room Friday afternoon.
Another one strips his sheets, whistling an unfamiliar tune.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me. The man that was here. Did they move him?”
The whistling woman shrugs. “Check the nurse’s station.”
My heartbeat whooshes in my ears as I trot down the hall and find a nurse in red scrubs hunching over a computer station. My mind runs through a hundred scenarios—some of them not so pretty. I couldn’t sleep last night, so I spent a solid hour researching heart transplants, statistics, life expectancies, complications …
I understand now why the man is so pessimistic about his condition.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for Bennett Schoenbach. He was here last night but he isn’t in his room. I was wondering if he was moved?” My gaze darts from her name badge to her computer to the coffee stain on her top.
She peers up, lips flat, and then she types a few letters into her keyboard and squints at the screen. “Discharged. Two hours ago.”
I thank her and make a beeline for the elevator, trekking the quarter-mile corridor to the parking garage at a complete loss for words.
I thought about him all day today, checked my phone every opportunity I had hoping there was an update or message, and in the end, I figured he was busy or resting and we’d catch up later tonight.
I gave him the benefit of the doubt because I was certain he’d keep me in the loop the first chance he got, because that’s what friends do.
As far as I know, I’m the only person who knew he was admitted yesterday—so why wouldn’t he tell me he was discharged?
It’s common courtesy.
This combined with the way he spoke to me after I brought him his dinner last night is a slap in the face.
By the time I get to my car, my mind is made up.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing at his door.
I knock three separate times before he finally opens it. His hair is combed and shower-wet, and a crisp white t-shirt clings to his broad shoulders while navy sweats hang off his narrow hips. His complexion has a healthier tint than it did last night and the woodsy scent of aftershave wafts off his damp skin.
“Just left the hospital.” I grip my purse strap and try to keep my voice calm. I didn’t come here to fight. “Would’ve been nice to know you’d been discharged.”
He doesn’t invite me in, in fact, he anchors himself in the doorway, elbow resting against the jam as he peers at me with a curious expression.
“You’re not my keeper, Astaire.”
I bite my tongue, swallowing what I really want to say. “I thought we were friends.”
Bennett exhales. “We are.”
“Then please explain to me why you’ve suddenly turned back into Mr. Hyde with zero explanation?” I throw a hand in the air, sniff an incredulous laugh. “Do you get irritable when you don’t feel well? Are you anxious? Is it something I said?”
He says nothing, which only sends my blood to a boil.