Come Back Tomorrow, page 14
“Do what?”
“Surround yourself with so much . . . sorrow. Most of your patients have either lost a loved one, or they’ve recently received a terminal diagnosis, right?”
“Yes,” I answer, feeling myself tense.
“Why do you work with those patients in particular? Did you choose it?”
His gaze is soft and curious but not concerned, so I guess the shaking I’m doing inside isn’t traveling to my hands that he’s holding. For the first time since I made the choice, I want to tell someone the reason. To tell him. To lay myself bare before him and show him what I carry.
But I can’t. He has enough to deal with without witnessing my sorrows because, in truth, they pale in comparison to what he’s going through. And it will take us back to the issue of where his family is, and I know it’s not time for us to go back there yet. This all sounds good until the little voice in the back of my head pipes up. Isn’t it just that you’re not ready to talk about this yet?
I smother the voice again with my reasoning as I try to figure out what to say to Will.
“Yes, I chose it,” I answer, unable to hide the quaver in my voice. But I can’t lie to him. Life is too short for bullshit—particularly his life.
“Why?” he asks, and that one word unleashes a storm of memories that I become lost in. I hear him calling me, and I gasp as I’m thrust back into the present. I’m clutching at his hand like a lifeline, and he’s reaching awkwardly across his body with his IV arm, stroking my cheek.
He’s breathing heavily from the exertion of holding himself up to comfort me, so I reach up and take his hand from my cheek. He slumps back against the bed, but his eyes never leave mine.
“There you are! You went away for a few minutes. Are you all right?”
“Y-yes,” I stammer out, my heart pounding in my chest and my breathing still rapid and shallow.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
As I look into his eyes, I’m cocooned by support and concern, and I begin to calm down. “I’m sorry, Will. I just can’t—”
“—talk about it.” He finishes for me. “Believe me, I’m no stranger to that. Whatever it is, I’m sorry someone hurt you.”
“Thank you.” I feel like a horrible hypocrite because I’m going to be asking him to divulge more of his secrets, yet I’m keeping some of my own. But then again, I’m not dying. I have time to work through my issues, and he doesn’t, and that’s how we ended up here in the first place. I wish I could let him be there for me, but I can’t add to the burdens he’s already carrying.
“You’re okay though?” he asks, still looking at me with concern.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for calling me back.”
“Anytime,” he says, his tone casual, but his eyelids betray his weariness as they fall closed.
“It’s time for me to go, Will.”
His eyes open, and he’s about to protest, but I put a gentle finger to his lips.
“You had an emotional day today with Jason coming by, and you’re getting sleepy. You don’t want to be all worn out tomorrow like you were yesterday, do you? Tomorrow we need to plan our weekend, and I need you awake for that.”
He grins at me shyly. “Can we watch more movies together?”
“I think there’s a good chance.”
“And will you bring popcorn and candy?”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?”
He ducks his head, and I reach over to lift his chin. He looks at me uncertainly, but I can’t hold back my smile. “Of course I’ll bring popcorn and candy, sweetheart.”
I’m still holding his chin, but his eyes are holding me. I stare into their green depths, and I’m startled by the longing I see there. His breathing is shallow and uneven, and for a split second, I swear his gaze flicks down to my lips. Does he want to—?
We both jump as the door squeaks, and I release Will’s chin. Jenny appears, carrying Will’s dinner, but she stops at the threshold, staring at the both of us as we stare back at her.
She shakes her head and continues into the room. “Good evening, Will. Are you ready to eat?”
“Hi, Jenny. Sounds good,” he tells her, but his eyes are fixed on me.
I’m still reeling from what just happened, but his gaze is steady and sure, and for the moment, it calms me. While Jenny sets his tray on his table and rolls it over, I step back in close to him.
“Can I come back tomorrow?”
“I’m counting on it,” he whispers, and his eyes close as I lean in and press a kiss to his forehead. I stay there for a moment, feeling the heat of his skin against my lips, and I know it’s not from fever. I pull back, and he’s breathing unevenly again, but the moment we had before is lost, at least for now.
“I’ll be here to wake you up,” I tell him and head for the door as Jenny uncovers his dishes and asks how he’s feeling.
I leave Will’s room and head down the hall, but I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I almost run into one of the nurses as she’s leaving another patient’s room. I mumble an apology, but my brain snaps back to the events of a few minutes ago.
Jesus, did he really want to kiss me?
A thrill of pleasure ripples through me, but I shake my head sternly. I shouldn’t be happy about this. I shouldn’t, but deep down, I know I am. It takes two to tango, and I’m reasonably sure if Jenny hadn’t opened that door right when she did, I’d be having a whole different internal monologue right now.
Oh God, does he really have feelings for me? We’ve flirted, and he’s told me how pretty I am—granted, he was high on morphine at the time—but this is something different entirely. Or is it? Is it me for me, or me because I’m the one who’s helping him?
Do I want to kiss him? I know the answer to that one almost before the thought makes its way from one side of my brain to the other. He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever known, inside and out, and I’m more attracted to him than I’ve ever been to anyone. I’ve already admitted to myself—and to Jenny—that if he weren’t dying, things would be different, or at least I’d want them to be. I know this can’t go anywhere, but if it gives him comfort, if it gives us both comfort, can it really be that bad?
Again, the warmth spreads through my chest, and I allow myself to think about what his soft lips would feel like sliding against mine. A shiver runs up my spine, and the warmth that was in my chest now pools between my legs, and I know I’m in way over my head. But I’ve been in over my head for a while now, and as long as I’m still helping him, it’s okay. Yup, this is okay.
When I get home, I let Sebastian sit up on the kitchen table to eat with me, and I give him a treat after dinner. Somehow, spoiling Will’s cat is cosmic repayment for how happy he made me today without even trying.
Chapter 17
I get ready in the morning with a spring in my step, eager to see Will today and make our plans for the weekend. I’m like a schoolgirl with a goddamn crush. The voice in my head saying this is a bad idea is still there, but today it’s drowned out by the thud of my heart against my ribcage and the cheerful hum that seems to permeate my thoughts.
I enter the room quietly to find Will still asleep. He’s not as peaceful as he was yesterday though. Today his brow is furrowed, and as I watch, he shifts and winces. He rolls his head to the side, away from me, but then he sighs and seems to settle. He doesn’t look sweaty, but as I take his hand, he feels warmer than he should be. Shit.
“Will, sweetheart. It’s morning,” I say, squeezing his fingers.
He wrinkles his nose adorably, which is the only hint he might have heard me. I stroke my knuckles softly across his cheek.
“Hey, sleepyhead, I’m not going to take no for an answer. If I let you sleep through seeing me this morning, I know you’re going to give me hell later. Let’s save us both the trouble, okay?”
A smile spreads across his face, and I chuckle as it lights up the room. Sleepy green eyes greet me next as he squeezes the hand that’s still holding his.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice all rough and husky from sleep, and I swear it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard.
While I’m recovering my power of speech, my eyes roam over him; my hand shifts from his cheek to his forehead. “You’re warm this morning.”
“Yeah, I think I was a bit feverish through the night. I tossed and turned a lot and kicked the afghan down a few times. I’m all right though. It’s not going to be a really bad day. At least, I don’t think so.” He finishes uncertainly.
My hand moves from his forehead to stroke my fingers through his hair, and he hums in contentment. “Do you want me to let you get some more rest? I could have just let you sleep—”
“No, I’m glad you woke me up. Even though I didn’t sleep that well, I can catch a nap later. I like waking up this way.”
My cheeks heat, and I know I’m blushing, and his shy smile causes my stomach to flip. “I’m happy to be of service, sir.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, smiling as he corrects me.
“Sir Sweetheart.” I quip, and he laughs, but it ends abruptly in the usual pained grunt.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s worth it,” he declares, and I smile brilliantly at him. “Especially when you do that.”
We’re headed for another moment like last night, and although that makes my heart start racing again, now’s not the time.
“I have to go. I have patients to see today, and you need to eat and then get some more sleep so you’re ready for me to come back at four.”
“I think Jason is coming by in a bit, but I’ll make sure I’m ready and waiting for you.” He smiles again, but I can tell it’s forced.
“Hey, if you’re not feeling well—”
“I’m okay, really,” he says. Then he sighs. “You can always tell, can’t you? I’m just off because of the fever. It’s like this every time. I have to force myself to concentrate to keep up with the conversation, and it wears me out more quickly. But it’s no big deal.”
“Well, if you’re still feeling that way later, I’ll tell you boring stories you don’t have to pay attention to because I refuse to be responsible for wearing you out.”
“Tori, you can wear me out any time,” he replies, but he freezes, and his eyes widen at the innuendo.
I laugh and shake my head, which relaxes him immediately. “On that note, I’m going to go. You have a good day, and feel better by the time I get back, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” he says as I give his hand one final squeeze.
As I gather my things, he rolls his eyes and blushes in embarrassment, and I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. It’s going to be a very interesting weekend.
It’s three fifty-five and I’m sitting in my office, holding my phone as tears slide down my cheeks. I can’t go see Will this afternoon. I have nothing left to give. I need to go home, curl up in a ball, and cry myself to sleep. And, unfortunately, I need to let one more person down today.
I stare at my phone, but I just don’t have it in me to call him. He’ll make me explain, and I don’t think I can go through it right now. And what if he’s sleeping? He was feverish this morning, and I don’t want to disturb him just to tell him I’m not coming. I’ll text him; that way he’ll know, and I won’t have to explain.
Will, I can’t come by this afternoon. Something happened at work, and I need to go home. I’ll come by tomorrow.
I hit send, feeling like the total coward I am, and begin to gather my things. Not even a minute goes by before my phone is vibrating across the desk. Dammit.
I could choose not to answer it. Let him think I turned off my phone right after I sent the text. Hell, that’s what I should have done. Then I wouldn’t be standing here having this argument with myself. What if something’s wrong? What if he really needs me, and he’s calling to tell me so? Oh, dammit all to hell!
I swipe my phone angrily and say “Hello” in a pitiful, shaky voice.
“Tori, I got your text. I’m sorry to call, but I was really worried. Are you all right?” His voice is soft and gentle, and I can easily picture the look that goes with it.
“I’m fine . . . Oh, hell! No, I’m not. I just . . . I need to be alone.”
“Now you’re really scaring me. Won’t you please tell me what happened? Did something happen to you, or is it something with a patient?”
“It’s a patient,” I say, as my tears begin anew.
“Tori, please come up. You sound like you really need a friend. Let me take care of you, for once. I’d come to you if I could”—he sighs—“but I can’t.”
I lean my head back against the wall and realize I don’t really want to go home. I want to tell Will what happened and let him comfort me. He already knows about Mr. Matthews from yesterday; it’s not as if I have to recount the whole story. And he sounds so eager for me to let him do something to help me. “Okay, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. Today, it’ll be my turn to listen. I’ll see you soon,” he answers, and I know I’ve made him happy. That counts for something, doesn’t it?
I trudge into Will’s room with my head down and fall wearily into my chair before I even look at him. When I finally do meet his eyes, he’s looking at me with such tenderness and compassion that the dam breaks, and I burst into tears.
He can’t really hold me because of his tender joints and lymph nodes, so I bury my head into the side of his thigh as I sob. His hand threads into my hair, and he strokes it away from my face soothingly.
“Oh, honey, it’s gonna be okay. Dammit, I wish I could hold you right now,” he murmurs, and I’m comforted by the fact that he wishes he could.
We stay that way until my tears are spent, and as I sniffle, I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are glassy, and I can’t tell if it’s from fever or unshed tears, and their warm green depths are filled with concern and sorrow.
“I’m sorry,” I say, pulling myself together. “How are you feeling? Are you still feverish?”
I raise my hand to touch his face, but he stops me mid-motion and clutches my hand in his. “No. Not today,” he tells me firmly.
“But—”
“Yes, I’m still feverish, but I’m all right. I’m more concerned about you right now.” He glances downward. “Will you tell me what happened?”
I take his hand between mine and rub my thumbs over the back. He waits patiently, seeming to know that once I’m settled, I’ll begin.
Finally, I force myself to look up. “Do you remember the patient I told you about yesterday? The one whose wife died six months ago, and he seemed depressed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he attempted suicide last night.”
“Oh, fuck. I’m so sorry, Tori,” Will says, his gaze warm and soft.
“Yeah, apparently he left his appointment with me, then went home and took a whole bottle of ibuprofen. He’s very lucky to be alive.”
“Did you see him today?”
“No. They have him sedated until the drug is out of his system. Then he’s going to be transferred down to the psych ward, and one of the psychiatrists is going to start working with him.”
“Will he be your patient again?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, trying not to get teary again. “I don’t think he’ll want to be, considering that I . . .” I look down at his afghan.
“Tori,” Will says, his tone authoritative. “Please come sit up here.” He pats the spot next to his thigh.
A little confused, I stand and turn around, sitting my backside on the edge of the bed next to him. When I turn to face him, he takes hold of my chin, and the look in his eyes captures me. His gaze is serious, fierce, and protective.
“This is not your fault. He made the choice, and you were doing everything you could for him. Don’t blame yourself.”
“But I didn’t tell Dr. Weaver about him, and obviously I should have—”
“Hey, you made the best decision you could with what you knew, right? You did your best, and you were concerned about him; you mentioned him to me yesterday.”
“But—”
“It’s done, Tori,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. “Don’t waste your time on regret. You did your best, and you can’t change it, so learn what you can and move on.” He caresses my cheek, and his voice softens. “Do you believe it’s not your fault?”
“I guess—”
“No, you need to be sure. Say it for me.”
“It’s not my fault,” I croak.
“Say it again. And believe it this time.”
“It’s not my fault,” I say more strongly.
“That’s better.”
“Ugh, but I’m still frustrated, you know? I just don’t understand making that choice,” I say, shaking my head as I try to keep fresh tears at bay. “I’ve always had trouble with why people choose to die.”
“Maybe he felt he had nothing left to live for,” Will answers as I watch his gaze grow distant.
“Maybe, but I still can’t see it that way. There’s always something worth living for—worth fighting for.”
Will looks down and away, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch the slight motion as he shifts his right wrist so it’s flush against the blanket.
No. No fucking way.
I lunge across the bed, grabbing his arm and turning it so his wrist is facing me. He gasps in pain at the sudden, rough motion, but for once, I hardly notice. I’m too busy staring at the raised, slightly pink scar that runs atop the largest vein leading away from his wrist. Without thinking, I unbutton the cuff of his nightshirt and let it fall open. The scar is two inches long and runs in parallel with the vein, not perpendicular, and I can see other faint scars, the dots left by the stitches running on either side of it. Whenever he did this, he was serious about it.
I grasp his other wrist, but I can already see a similar scar before I even manage to turn his arm over. I can’t believe I never noticed them because now they look so obvious, but he’s always been so careful to keep me from seeing as much of his bare skin as possible.
