Heading out, I lock his door behind me but when I turn to make my way to the elevator, I’m face to face with a vaguely familiar set of icy-blue eyes belonging to a man with coal-black hair, shiny and slicked back. He wears dark gray jeans, ripped, and suede jacket that fills my nostrils with the tang of tanned leather. A thinner, more menacing version of Bennett.
“Bennett home?” His words are breathy, his hands tremoring as they rest on his hips. If I had to guess, this is his brother.
The brother with whom there’s bad blood …
Dark circles nest below his squinted eyes as he waits for my response.
“No.” I leave it at that. If Bennett hasn’t told him he’s in the hospital, I’m sure as heck not going to.
“I don’t suppose you know where I can find him?” His watchful gaze dips to the duffel bag hanging from my shoulder, mahogany leather with Bennett’s monogram stitched into the side in black thread.
“I’m sorry.” I turn, continuing my journey to the elevator, when I’m joined by his footsteps.
“Excuse me. I didn’t catch your name?”
I stop in my tracks, but I don’t turn to face him.
“Where are you going with my brother’s things?” He points to the duffel, his brows furrowed as if he demands an answer.
“I need to get going …” I continue to the elevator, punching the call button and exhaling a silent prayer of gratitude when the doors part immediately. Fortunately, Bennett’s brother doesn’t climb aboard—he stares me down with a peculiar expression I couldn’t read if I tried.
“Tell him to call Errol,” he says as the doors begin to close. “Tell him it’s extremely urgent. Please.”
28
Bennett
My phone vibrates across the tray table. I yank it off the charger. “Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s me,” my investigator says on the other end.
“Any luck with the texts?”
“Nah. Not yet. Still working on it. Her phone was … antiquated … so it’s taking more legwork than I anticipated, but anyway, I was calling you back on that other thing you wanted me to look into? The heart donor thing?”
Weeks ago, when he’d given me Astaire’s background report it included a copy of her fiancé’s obituary. His death date was January seventh—the same day as my transplant. The only information I was given was that he was twenty-five and had been involved in a car accident. His name was confidential. I’ve never given much credence to coincidences before, but this one was too unnerving to ignore.
“Do you have a name for me?”
“I do. Now you didn’t hear this from me because I don’t want to get my source canned. Don’t go contacting the family or doing anything crazy, all right?”
“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.
29
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?”