Part 7 (1/2)

Too many seconds pa.s.s without my answer, and he nods, taking my silence as my decline. ”Maybe another night.”

”Yeah, maybe.”

He leans in and kisses my cheek. As he crosses the street, he turns, flas.h.i.+ng me a smirk. I wave before entering my hotel, my mind already replaying the evening.

Back in my room, I dig through my suitcase. The onyx velvet box I packed is tucked away inside layers of folded clothes. Finley would be p.i.s.sed if she knew I still had it. She'd turn into Wolverine Finley if she knew I had it here.

I slip it out of the pocket of my sweatpants and stare at it. The contents of this box represents so much-innocence, heartbreak, the loss of color. How can I both love and hate something at the same time?

Slowly, I open the lid. The gold glistens in the moonlight reflecting off of it, but the small solitaire diamond doesn't. Its sparkle dimmed a long time ago.

Chris said he saved for a year for this ring. He gave it to me the day we graduated from high school. The memory is foggy even now, because the haze existed then too. But I remember his words when he slid the band onto my finger.

”Don't lose it. I'm not buying you another one.”

I press the pad of my finger onto the diamond. It barely leaves an indentation in my skin. This is as far as I've ever gotten to taking it out of the box since I put it in there. Usually I only look at it when something good happens, because good things aren't supposed to happen for me. The ring knocks me back down to where I belong. It's a reminder that Chris is right: happiness isn't for the worthless.

I lift my eyes to see my reflection in the television. The dark screen blocks all color, but there aren't any hues to reflect anyway. I smile, hoping to catch a glimpse of the innocent girl I once knew, the one whose smile was bright and genuine.

Then I think about Maverick's smile. His is so effortless. How does his whole face light up with such a simple muscle movement? I wonder what he sees in me.

I'm stupid for doing what I'm about to do. It's senseless and ridiculous and I'll probably loathe the outcome. But a tiny spark that I can't ignore has gone off in my chest.

So I pull out my sketch pad and colors, and easily bring to memory the way Maverick looked at me. Then I begin to draw.

Chapter 11.

Present Day 3:17 a.m.

A nurse brings me a cup of coffee. I recognize her from earlier, the one peering at me from behind the computer. She tells me Maverick is still in surgery, and unfortunately there's no update yet.

”Thank you,” I say, accepting the cup.

”We should know something soon.”

Once she's gone, I take a sip, hoping it'll warm my bones. She didn't add cream or sugar or Coffee-Mate. That's the way I like it, with Coffee-Mate. Hazelnut, usually. Unless it's Christmas.

Maverick hates hazelnut Coffee-Mate. Says it tastes like watered-down caramel, and who in their right mind would water down caramel? So for fun once, I went to the store and bought the caramel flavor for him to sample.

He took a sip and spit it out in the sink. ”That s.h.i.+t is not caramel. It's s.h.i.+t.”

”Are you an expert on s.h.i.+t?” I asked, laughing.

”I'm a lawyer. s.h.i.+t is the reason I have a job.”

Maverick takes his coffee black.

There's creamer and sugar at the coffee station in the corner. I could add what I want, but holding the black coffee between my palms makes me feel a little closer to him.

The clock on the wall tells me I've been at the hospital for an hour, which means Maverick has been here for over two.

Finley was in a car accident once. She rolled her convertible while messing with the radio. The car flipped end-over-end and then horizontally into a field. As a precaution, the ambulance took her to the hospital, but she was fine. Three st.i.tches above her eyebrow was all that was required.

Her accident was nothing like this. I didn't even get her texts until the next morning.

I hold the cup until the coffee gets cold. Still, I don't throw it away.

The same nurse approaches me again after what seems like hours. When I glance at the clock, only thirty minutes have pa.s.sed.

”They're finis.h.i.+ng up now,” she says. ”The surgeon should be out to speak with you soon.”

My heart sinks and leaps at the same time. Answers.

”Is he okay?” I ask, unsure of my voice.

”He's stable for now.”

I don't know what that means. Do they not expect him to stay stable?

I can't get more words out, so I nod and hold the coffee tighter. The Styrofoam pushes inward and I soften my grip to avoid crus.h.i.+ng it.

A woman in seafoam scrubs walks toward the waiting room, her eyes finding mine. Her expression gives nothing away, and my insides drop.

”Mrs. Tavare?”

I stand up, smoothing my sweating palms on my pants. ”Yes.”

”I'm Doctor Felicia Santos, your husband's surgeon. Your husband is stable,” she repeats what the nurse had told me. ”We did a CT scan, x-rays, and routine trauma scans when they brought him in. He sustained multiple injuries in the accident, the worst being a dissected aorta. We're concerned about his spleen and possible internal bleeding, so we're closely monitoring his heart rate and blood pressure.”

She continues to list off injuries-severe concussion, broken ribs, and diaphragm rupture. Vitals and blood draws would be taken hourly.

”We're doing all we can,” the surgeon finishes.

I force myself to focus on her. ”Will he be okay?”

She looks at me. ”The first twenty-four hours are critical.”

Chapter 12.

Cancun, Mexico 27 Months Ago On our third day in Cancun, Maverick and I spend the whole day on the beach. We avoid talking about our pasts, avoid anything too heavy. Instead, he teaches me to body surf, and I learn that I suck at it. But watching Maverick laugh at my foibles makes the experience worth every mistake.

He's taken advantage of opportunities to touch me. He offered to rub sunscreen on my back, my shoulders, my face. I returned the favor, fighting myself the entire time for enjoying the feel of his skin under my fingertips. This man is intoxicating, and I'm breathing in the fumes as if I've never tasted desire before.