Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Morning,” I say, offering her coffee.
She breathes out, taking the cup. “Morning.”
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like I’ve had a taste of sleep and I want more.” Sitting up and crossing her legs, she wraps both palms around the mug and sips. “I’m sorry for showing up here last—”
I cut her off by resting a hand on her knee. “Don’t apologize.”
She nods mildly into her mug, falling into thought. Real life is seeping back into her waking brain, and I hate the gradual fall of her face that comes with it. “What time is it?”
“Nine. I didn’t want to wake you but thought you’d want to call the hospital.”
Her alarm is instant, so I reach down for her handbag and pass it to her. “Thank you.” She dives right in and retrieves her phone, and rather than sit and listen in on the conversation, I head for the bathroom, giving her privacy, and finish my morning coffee while I rest against the vanity unit. Who the fuck knows what today might bring? More heartbreak, probably.
I shower, brush my teeth, and ignore the too-long scruff I’m sporting at the moment. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I go back to the bedroom, finding Lo deep in thought, still sitting on the bed. “Did you get through to the hospital?”
She shoots her eyes my way, startled from her daydream. “He’s drifting in and out. No change.” She takes my offered hand and lets me pull her up from the bed. “I’d better be going.”
“I’ll take you,” I declare, not bothering to ask her if she’d like me to. I’m taking her, and that’s it. I head for my wardrobe, hearing Lo’s accepting okay as I go. “Boris can stay here with Steve.” It’ll be one less thing for her to worry about. “And we’ll stop off at yours on the way through so you can change.” I throw on a sweater and drag some jeans up my legs, fastening them as I walk back into the room.
“Okay,” she agrees easily again.
I nod and sit on the end of the bed to pull on some socks. “Anything else you need to do while we’re out?”
“I don’t think so.” She looks off into the distance, maybe trying to think about that.
“Well, if you think of something, tell me.” I shove my feet into my Timberlands. “I’m at your disposal.” I’m also taking charge.
Lo smiles as I stand. “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me,” I order, uncomfortable with her constant gratitude. “Why don’t you take a shower and finish your coffee while I sort the dogs out?”
She nods, her eyes following me as I leave the room. “Luke,” she calls, stopping me at the door.
I look over my shoulder.
“You’re a good man,” she says, almost hesitantly. Hesitant, because she knows deep down that it’s not what I want to hear. Being a good man, doing the right thing, will never give me her heart.
On the journey to her house, Lo explains everything with a surprisingly steady voice. I listen to her tell me how she contacted the specialist in America, how they tentatively agreed on a date, how she paid an instalment of the medical bill . . . and then it all went pear-shaped. Billy’s infection wouldn’t budge, and every test the doctors did came back with dire news. Lo went from soaring to drowning in the space of a week. From hopeful to hopeless. The lifeline I offered has been cruelly snatched away by nature. And I wasn’t there for her. I hate myself in this moment. I should have been there. How I feel about Lo doesn’t matter anymore.
I reach over and take her hand, squeezing when I sense her voice breaking. “Stop now,” I say quietly. She doesn’t need to go over this again. I’ve heard enough.
“They’ve said he could have days, weeks, or a month. He’s just gone downhill so rapidly.”
I wince at the brutality of her situation as I come to a stop at some lights. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” she says seriously, gazing out of the window. “You sound like you’re blaming yourself.”
“I should have given you that money sooner.”
Lo swings toward me violently. “Don’t,” she shouts, fuming mad. I recoil and stare at her in stunned silence. “Don’t ever say that to me again. What you did for me was a beautiful thing. You put your feelings aside and gave me that money to save my husband’s life. It spread over time, Luke. Way before I knew you.”
Maybe, but she’s wrong about one thing. I didn’t put my feelings aside. I couldn’t. They were very much at the forefront of this mess, hurting more and more with every second that passed after she walked away.
I stare at her, seeing rage in her broken-hearted gaze that’s new to me. She’s angry. I guess she needs to be angry, and if that means she takes it out on me, then so be it. I’d give her a bat if I could, let her pound me while she shouts and screams to get it out of her system. But I realize, she might never get it out of her system. There are seven stages of grief. I truly believe in all of them, except the last. Acceptance. No one should be expected to accept losing a loved one so tragically. No one.