Page 120 of The Kiss of Deception

“Thank you,” I manage instead.

She departs with a nod, leaving me to watch the blue of her surgical gown cut through the overwhelming white and disappear when the doors swing behind her.

For a moment, I’m surrounded by nothing, lost in a colorless life with no indication of north or south or the way out.

Unsure of what now, and what next.

I’ve always prided myself in never having needed anyone, yet all I want now is someone to just tell me what to do. I need someone.

Not someone.

I need him.

Miles.

I rummage through my purse for my phone, but the only contents in there are my keys and documents. I pat my back pockets and discover these pants don’t have any. Before I can glare at the sky and scream ‘Why, God? Why?’, I realize the device is clasped between my chin and my chest.

Chastising myself mentally, I snatch it, but it slides from my slick palm straight to the floor. I watch it tumble and land, but the clatter doesn’t register until I drop to my haunches and the sight of tiny shards of glass awakens my tear ducts.

It’s broken. It’s a million jagged pieces, all together and broken.

Counting to six, I instruct myself to breathe in through my nose. Counting again, I breathe out. I count, again and again, until I’m sure my vision will be clear when I open my eyes.

I’ll find a way to call him, as soon as possible.

On the other hand, talking to the messenger of death is the last thing I need right this second, but I have enough presence of mind to provide other contacts temporarily since mine is currently off-service.

Then I succumb and make camp in the stiff chairs.

For hours, I oscillate between floating away from myself to escape this nightmare, and dragging myself back to feel every second of the bite of my nails on my palms. Because that’s the least this man deserves after I failed him so thoroughly.

All the glaring signs that I efficiently ignored in order to go on with my blissful little life. I’d launched myself into it for him, only for it to become his downfall. The constant fatigue disregarded as old age, the sudden coughing fits attributed to choking on fucking saliva, the shortness of breath after a small laugh…

I should have noticed. I should have insisted.

My eyes sting in complaint. I stare, unblinking, at the floor for too long, but I refuse any reprieve.

The throbbing in my head worsens with every passing second, but my stubborn brain refuses to calm, launching into another round of what-ifs and what-thens.

What if he doesn’t make it out of the surgery?

What if he survives but he isn’t himself? What if his body no longer answers to his mind, what if his mind doesn’t belong to him anymore? All the predicaments that always scared him more than death.

To me, though, nothing is scarier than the idea of not hearing the unconditional love in his accent again or feeling my body enveloped in the cinnamon scent of his hug.

Like a little girl, alone. Because he isn't here, now, to promise me he always will be.

Sharper than spears, my elbows dig into my thighs. I relish the prickles of pain. Too soon, they fade into nothing, and numbness takes place with the hours spent in the white unupholstered chair until everything has numbed.

Unable to stay upright any longer, my head drops between my hunched shoulders as I shove my shaking fingers into my messy curls until my nails find scalp. I claw deeper, then, and harder still—clinging to the sting on my skull to keep me tethered to this nightmare of a reality.

But it’s real. It’s as real as the lingering sunshine and fresh air in my oversized hoodie, a sensory promise that Miles is always with me.

In my rush, the last thing on my mind was changing. I’d grabbed the first pair of pants I’d spotted and buttoned it under one of Miles’s sweatshirts.

As if I’d conjured it, his name gives my senses a reprieve.

My absent ears strain to hear the enthusiastic voices on the TV. Even though I can't make out their words, the breaking news is unmistakable to my blurry eyes.

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