Page 65 of The Kiss of Deception

“It’s okay.” I hide the bitter realization from my voice. “I’m okay, Grandpa. Really. I don’t want you to worry about me. That’s the job of all these doctors.”

“I’ll always worry about you. Get over it.”

“You know what that means. I’ll have no choice but to worry about you, too.” I give him my cheeky grin. My stitches are sore so I dropped it much too quickly.

Thankfully, the old man has shifted his attention. He walks around my bed in the direction of the armchair, but his intentions aren’t set on it. He pulls my boyfriend into the same hug he always reserves for me, full of everything that can’t be reduced to words.

“Thank you, son.”

Miles is stiff, but it melts off as they exchange more words. I’m not able to catch them, as my mother comes to sit by my feet on the bed.

She lays her palm on my knee, over the blanket. “How are you, darling?”

“I’m okay, Mom. I am,” I promise.

She has no qualms about showing her reluctance to believe me with the subtle raise of her brow. “You certainly don’t look okay, darling.”

“Why, thank you, darling mother. That’s precisely what a wounded woman needs to hear,” I deadpan.

“Happy to see that the bandage on your head hasn’t affected your penchant for sarcasm.”

“Me too,” I agree, un-sarcastically for once.

“Has your father been informed about this incident?”

She knew the answer before she asked the question.

“Don’t call him.” The demand rushes out of me, but everyone hears it clearly. Grandpa, who has occupied the seat, seizes my unstabbed hand.

If my father doesn’t know, there’s a reason for his absence. If he knows and doesn't come…

It’d hurt. Whether I anticipate or expect it. Like a train wreck, I could see it coming from miles away. I could brace myself and prepare for it. but and the impact would not be less devastating.

“Don’t to bother him,” I say with deliberate slowness. “My prognosis is good. I’m fine.”

Mom gives me one of her sharp looks, the one that tells me it’s a lost fight. “I’ll let him know.”

“If you must.” I relent with apathy that’s noticeably fake, my body already folding in on itself to prepare for another hit.

From the other side, Grandpa tightens his hold around my hand.

“What about your recovery? When did you say you’re getting discharged? You’ll come home with me darling. You’re not going back to your place.”

“Zoe is coming home with me,” Miles declares, stopping my mother’s ideas before they root, as though it’s a done deal, signed and stamped by both of us. “We’ve been considering getting our own house together, anyway, so there’s no point delaying.”

Say what, again?

I vaguely recall Dr. Chen’s list of symptoms for a head wound, and it included impaired hearing, amnesia, and even hallucinations.

Perhaps this, all of this, is a hallucination, a product of my fertile imagination. My family standing in a room with Miles as my boyfriend as he announces we’ll be taking the next step in our relationship by building a home together is something conceivable only in dreams—or delusions.

“Oh, darling, I didn’t know.” We have one thing in common. “That’s great! If that’s what you want, I’m so happy.”

“Surprise!” I shriek with a maniacal grin, staring at my fake boyfriend.

A mild concussion and five stitches.

That’s the official diagnosis. Utterly underwhelming.

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