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.
“Please help me understand.” I clasp my hands together.
“What’s the point?”
“What’s … the … point?” I feed his question back, emphasizing each and every word. “I guess there is none... I just … the past couple of weeks we’d been getting along so well, having fun … you were opening up to me, confiding in me … then last night I’m gone for all of an hour and when I get back, you’re a completely different person. It’d be nice to know where this is coming from.”
“I bet it would be … but unfortunately it still doesn’t matter.”
“You hate being vulnerable. You hate the idea of looking weak. You’re ashamed of your family. You’ve got this ironclad façade you place between yourself and the rest of the world,” I say. “I know those things about you. I’ve known them from the start. And yet, I rushed to your side the second you texted me last night.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“I think we’ve been getting ahead of ourselves the last couple of weeks.” He drags his fingers through his damp hair, lips pressed flat.
“We?” I ask. “We? Bennett, you invited me on a date. You took me shopping for your niece. You invited me to your house for dinner. You texted me your hospital room number, which I took as an invitation.”
“All right. Fine. I’ve been getting ahead of myself. Is that better?”
Not really. “What happened in that hour that flipped a switch in you? Something spooked you.”
“Nothing spooked me, Astaire.” He scoffs.
How dare I insult him by suggesting he’s afraid of something …
“You know … you’re the first actual friend I’ve had since I lost Trevor …” my voice fades, breaks, and I gather a deep breath. “I don’t know why you suddenly had a change of heart, but I think I at least deserve an explanation.”
“You do. But you’re not getting one.”
A million more things I want to say, a million thoughts swarm my head, but I swallow them down. There’s no point in arguing with a brick wall.
I leave, pacing back to the elevator while trying to shove a cocktail of emotions to the deepest part of me so I don’t lose it in front of him.
I honestly believed we were friends.
I was even beginning to get butterflies when he looked at me. I entertained daydream fantasies I had no business entertaining. And my stomach would somersault with each text message notification.
But he’s nothing more than that cruelhearted stranger from the bar.
And that’s all he’ll ever be.
“Astaire.” He says my name as I reach for the call button.
I keep my back to him.
“Astaire, wait.” His voice is closer now.
The elevator chimes. The doors part. His hand hooks my elbow and he presses the “close” button.
My ride disappears.
“Look at me.” He turns me to face him, but my attention is fixed on the patterned carpet. “Look at me.”
With a finger beneath my chin, he softly lifts my gaze to his.
“You’re crying.” He traces the pad of his thumb across my cheek.
I brush him away. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Act like you care.”
His chest rises and falls. “But I do. I care way too fucking much.”
He slips his hand over mine and leads me back to his apartment. A moment later, we’re seated on his sofa. He buries his face in his hands, breathing hard before sinking back in the cushions and staring toward the gray city scape beyond the wall of windows.
Seconds feel like minutes, dripping by with each patient tick of his mantel clock.
And then he takes my hand. “Astaire, there’s something I have to tell you.”
My heart rattles in my chest and my hand tremors in his. Those aren’t words that normally accompany good news. The last time I heard them was the day of Linda’s cancer diagnosis. The time before that, my foster father was delivering the news that my mother had stopped trying to regain custody and I was officially a ward of the state.
“I had my guy do some digging.” His gaze holds mine. “Turns out my heart donor … was your fiancé.”
His words don’t register until I’ve replayed them in my head a couple more times.