The Dirty Truth

“He said he’d hang out in the waiting room if you didn’t want to see him,” Indie says. “But he’s not leaving. He made that clear.”

I’d expect nothing less . . .

With eyes squeezed tight, I exhale a hard breath. “Send him in.”

The soft tap of Indie’s sneakers against the tile floor grows faint, replaced a few seconds later with the familiar steadfast pats of designer dress shoes.

Squinting, I peer at his dark shadow as he takes the chair beside my hospital bed. Without a word, he slides his hand over mine. The quiet beeping of the heart rate monitor kicks up a notch, much to my dismay.

“How are you feeling?” He keeps his voice soft and low.

“I’ve been better.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?” There’s a vein of concern running through his tone.

“You haven’t exactly reached emergency-contact status in my phone,” I tease, eyes drifting shut again.

“We’ll be changing that the second you’re out of here,” he says as if his word is gospel. “What are the doctors saying?”

“Just waiting for a read from imaging. Worst case, there could be an unruptured aneurysm they’ll have to clip.”

“How long have you been waiting?”

“How’s Scarlett?” I change the subject because I don’t need him throwing his weight around here to get me special privileges. “I think she might have texted me earlier? I haven’t been able to do much on my phone.”

“She’s fine,” he says.

“Is she here with you?”

“She’s at home.”

“Alone?”

“Bettina’s staying with her tonight,” he says. “I’m not leaving your side until you’re out of here.”

“West, about the other day—”

“Get some rest.” He cuts me off, leaving his hand with mine. “We’ll talk when you’re better.”

I close my eyes, but it’s difficult to relax when my mind won’t stop spinning with a million what-if scenarios, the loudest of which revolves around the man sitting beside my bed in a rock-hard hospital chair, all but chained to my side. All the doubts, fears, and insecurities that have plagued me since the night West confessed how he feels suddenly seem small in comparison to this moment.

He can be an asshole.

And sometimes he is still the worst.

But other times, like now . . . he’s the best.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

WEST

“Elle, it’s Dr. Breckenridge.” A white-haired man in a lab coat leans over Elle’s bed.

She stirs awake, her pretty face pinched as her eyes flutter open. Lifting a hand to her temple, she winces.

In the past two hours since I got here, I haven’t left her side. I can’t and I won’t. It’s been my experience that people leave when you least expect it. If I’m here, vigilant and watchful, she can’t leave me.

And she can’t leave Scarlett.

That girl has already experienced a lifetime of loss and disappointment in her fourteen years. The last thing she needs is more.

Indie wakes in the chair in the corner, quiet and blinking as we await the results.

“I have good news,” he says, a genuine warmth enveloping his soft voice. “Your scans are clear. No aneurysm.”

Elle tries to sit up, lines furrowing across her brow. “What?”

“No aneurysm.” The doctor sniffs a chuckle. “I wanted to get a second opinion from a colleague, which is why it took so long, but I appreciate your patience. I know how unnerving it can be to wait.”

I bite my tongue to keep from mentioning that an update would’ve been nice . . .

“We believe you’re having an MBA—or a migraine with a brain stem aura,” he continues. “It can mimic the signs of an aneurysm with the severe pain and the blurred vision, so you did the right thing by coming straight to the hospital.”

“Are you sure?” Indie asks.

Dr. Breckenridge turns to her and nods. “Positive.”

“That’s wonderful.” I squeeze Elle’s hand.

“I’m going to order you some medication that should help with that migraine,” the doctor says to Elle. “Might knock you out for the next twenty-four hours or so. Is there someone you can stay with, to help keep an eye on you?”

“Yes,” Indie and I both answer at the same time.

Dr. Breckenridge snickers. “I’ll let the three of you sort that out. Anyway, Elle, I’m glad you came in, and I’ll see you at your next follow-up.”

With that, he leaves, and a dark-haired nurse steps in to take Elle’s vitals before disconnecting her monitors.

“I’m so sorry, you guys,” Elle says to Indie and me. “I made you worry for nothing.”

“Stahp.” Indie tsks and waves her hand. “You did the right thing. Your doctor even said so.” Turning to the nurse, she says, “Ma’am, do you know when Elle’s going to be discharged?”

“He’ll have to put in the order,” she says. “Could be an hour or two?”

“Go home, Indie,” I say. “I’ll take it from here.”

Her jaw falls, and she sniffs. “Yeah, no, I’m good. I’ll hang here until they let her go, and I’ll take her home.”