Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

My goal in life is not to break glass ceilings. It’s to be happy. Not happy like faux self-care happy, with two hundred dollar bath salts and Instagrammable photos of myself in designer yoga pants. Happy like a little seaside village. Happy like a favorite meal cooked to perfection. Happy like a favorite person waking up while you stroke their arm, sighing when you play with their hair, giving you tremulous smiles.

The first thing he says to me is, “Love you.” It’s weak and raspy, and he falls asleep right after. I know he’s still getting good meds, because his eyelids tremble like they do when people dream, and when he looks at me, he seems drunkenly content.

Things shift when they try to wake him up a bit more, so he can get rid of the high-flow air mask. More swallowing, shifting his jaw, and little winces that make me feel queasy with sympathetic pain. At one point, he jerks, and his eyes pop open. He grabs his chest like he’s remembering what happened in the garage. I guess it hurts, because he moans and then he whimpers. When he shifts his gaze to me, his eyes are dazed and red-rimmed.

“Hey, sweetheart.” I stroke his hair back off his forehead. “You got hurt. Do you remember?”

His face twists, and he starts breathing harder. His eyes lock onto mine, and he looks almost afraid. Our nurse comes over to his bedside. “Hi, Mr. Galante. I’m Christine, one of your nurses.” I can see her watching him, trying to discern…whatever nurses have to discern.

“Are you in pain?”

He looks from her to me. “Do you feel sore?” she asks, more slowly.

He shuts his eyes, and I can see his jaw clench. Then he gives a small shake of his head.

“Are you sure? Looks like some of your numbers are up, the way they are sometimes when patients are in pain,” the nurse says.

He looks at me then shuts his eyes again. “I’m sure,” he whispers. Then he winces as a little shudder moves through his shoulders.

“Let me know if you change your mind. We don’t want you hurting,” Christine says. “I’ll be right back,” she tells me, and then she exits through the narrow glass door.

As soon as she does, Luca’s eyes fix on my face. “Did…he die?” He brings a hand up to his face—the hand that’s got an IV taped onto the knuckles.

“Who, darling?”

“Aren.”

“Aren?”

He frowns at me through trembling fingers. “I shot him…right?” I think he must really be hurting, because his voice shakes, and he breathes deeply again. Then he curls his fist in his dark hair.

“Do you think you need more pain meds?”

He lifts his head, looking around the room. “You need…to get out of here.”

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

His mouth trembles, and he presses his lips flat. “Go,” he whispers. “Before…someone sees.”

“Sees what?” He holds his head again; I’m positive he’s hurting—his eyes and face look tortured—but I’m not quite sure he’s lucid.

“Sees you,” he groans. “With…me.”

His teeth are clamped down on his lip. He inhales deeply, fingers curled around his forehead.

“Luca, are you okay?”

“No. You…gotta go.”

“You just had a major surgery.”

“I…know.” He grits his teeth. His hand keeps tugging at his hair, and he’s still gulping big breaths.

“I’m not leaving right now. Please don’t be mad. I’ve got on a hat, and I said I was your wife. Mrs. Galante.”

His eyes widen, and I swear he pales a shade more.

“Listen, Luca—no one knows. I promise.”

“What…?” He looks down at himself, as if he’s trying to discern what kind of surgery he underwent.

“They did several things,” I whisper. “I know you have to be so sore.”

He covers his face with his hand. And then he’s breathing in these little jerks. “It…doesn’t hurt.” His voice is so hoarse. I watch his shaking fingers press into his forehead. “I’m just…mad…it happened. Somewhere…footage…of you…”

“Please don’t think about that right now. Not until tomorrow. You’re in the ICU. Just let me be here with you tonight. We can reassess it all tomorrow.”

I stand up, rubbing my hand through his hair the way I know he likes. And that’s when Christine rushes back in.

“Mr. Galante,” she says, frowning at one of the machines beside him. “I think you’re going to be overruled. I’ve been here eighteen years. I’ve never known a heart rate to lie. You’re not someone with an addiction history, are you?”

His eyes slide to me, and then balefully to the nurse. “No.” He looks absolutely miserable, and simultaneously more stubborn than I’ve ever seen him.

“You’re about to get hit with feel good stuff, big guy. Before Dr. Lin hears that I let that heart of yours get upset, and she has words with me.”

The nurse steps away, and Luca pleads with me, using just his poor, tired eyes.

“You’ll just get a little sleepy,” she assures him. “We want you to rest. Your wife is going nowhere, trust me. I couldn’t even get her to sit down. She loves taking care of you.”