Part 23 (1/2)
I scrunch my nose. ”Cliche. Renaldo?”
Maverick blinks. ”I'm trusting you to name our children, and you want to name the cat Renaldo?”
”What? Renaldo is a good name.”
”Yeah, eighty years ago in Spain.”
”Chopstick.”
”You're kidding, right?”
”Okay, fine. I dare you to come up with something better.”
”Dare accepted.” Maverick picks up Night Eyes and holds him so they're face to face. The cat tries to look away, but Maverick turns to scrutinize him.
”He's not going to give you any suggestions,” I say, amused.
”Sure he will. You just have to be a cat whisperer like me.”
”So the truth comes out. Law school, my a.s.s.”
”I have to keep up with appearances, you know. Lawyer by day, cat psychic by night.” Maverick twists Night Eyes to face me. ”His name is Morocco.”
”Did he tell you that?”
”He sure did.”
”Morocco, huh?” I rub both of his ears, and his purring grows louder. ”He seems to like it.”
”Of course he does. It's a kick-a.s.s cat name.”
He tilts his head toward me before he steps out of Maverick's arms and into mine. ”All right. Morocco it is.”
Chapter 35.
Present Day 9:29 a.m.
Finley has me in the cafeteria, and I abhor her for it. I'm so far away from where I'm supposed to be. She puts a cup of coffee in front of me. Why does everyone think I need coffee?
”He's in good hands, Ali,” my best friend rea.s.sures me. Except it's just one of those things you say to people, thinking it will make them feel better. No one cares about someone else's hands.
I keep thinking about Maverick convulsing on the bed. The dull color of his skin. The flas.h.i.+ng lights on the monitors.
I don't nod this time. I simply stare at the table's surface, honing in on a scarlet stain. Of course it has to be scarlet.
Or maybe the color is only in my head.
We stayed in the ICU hallway for a while. Minutes after Finley dragged me out of the room, the team of nurses wheeled Maverick out. Dr. Santos led the way through the double doors where I couldn't follow.
”Where are they taking him?” I asked Laney when she exited.
”Surgery. Dr. Santos will be out to speak with you when they're finished.”
”Is he okay? Will he be okay?”
”He's unstable, and the doctor will do everything she can to stabilize him. It'll be a couple of hours. We won't know anything before that. You're welcome to stay in the waiting area or go down to the cafeteria.”
”Thank you,” Finley answered for me. ”Come on, Ali. You should eat something.”
Now, I close my eyes to shut out the color that used to mean something else entirely. When it came to Maverick and me, I used to daydream of scarlet, of all-night pa.s.sion and desire. Burning heat quenched by bliss so cobalt that my eyes would roll back in tranquility only Maverick could provide.
The color haunts me now, follows me around even with my eyelids squeezed shut. There is no hiding from fear. It's always there.
Finley says something else, but I don't make out the actual words.
I look at her. She frowns at my expression. ”What?” I ask.
”I said, since there's nothing we can do, maybe it would be a good idea to get some food and maybe try to sleep.”
I'm not tired, and I'm not hungry.
”You're pale and there are major bags under your eyes, Ali. You need food and rest.”
My gaze drops to my cold coffee. My thoughts drift, and I wonder if Maverick's spleen is the only organ causing the internal bleeding. What if it's not? They can't just go inside my husband's body and start removing all of his organs, can they? What about his heart? The-what had they called it? Dissected aorta? Do dissected aortas bleed?
They said he wasn't stable enough for this kind of surgery. So how is he now, after his blood pressure just went haywire?
”Ali, breathe.”
His blood pressure is too low. You lose blood in surgery. He doesn't have enough to lose.
What if...
”Ali!”
Cold liquid pours onto my lap. In front of me is a puddle. The Styrofoam cup is crushed, open slits allowing what's left to dribble out.
I think about how it's coffee. How coffee is supposed to be amber, not gray.
I watch, dazed, as Finley piles paper towels on top of the spill. She wipes down the table, and someone comes with mop.
”Here.” My best friend hands me a wad of paper towels.
I stare at them.