Page 44 of The Man I Love

“Tris…”

“Tell me.” He needed the truth, no matter how difficult it was to hear.

“She’s about as good as you,” she bit out. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Of course not.” He shook his head.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know…” he whispered.

She was quiet for a long time. “What do you want, Tristan?”

He paused, as though the question was absurd. “I want her.”

“Do you? Because you’re not doing a very good job of showing it.”

An overwhelming surge of regret made him stand up, and he stepped forward.

He wanted to ask whatexactlyshe’d meant by that. He wanted to know every word Samantha had said in the past three weeks since he’d left that apartment. “I’ll fix this,” he promised. “As soon as I can. As soon as I’m able.”

Renee let out a breath. “I hope so.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Tristan Montgomery?”

He held up one finger to signal he was there. “I gotta go,” he said to Renee. “The nurse is here.” Everything felt rushed. The moment he thought would never arrive finally fell into his lap.

“Text me when you’re out,” Renee demanded.

He picked up his walletand the forms he’d been given upon arrival. “Okay.”

“I love you, Tris,” she said firmly.

“I love you too,” he said, then clicked off the phone and walked toward the nurse.

“Tristan Montgomery?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he drawled, trying to be charming enough that she wouldn’t notice his hands shaking.

She smiled softly and looked down at her chart. “Will anyone be accompanying you this morning?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Her eyes saddened andshe touched his shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. We’ll take good care of you.”

He nodded once, flashed her his best Montgomery smile, then followed her down the hall where he was prepped for surgery.

It tooka moment for Tristan to realize where he was. A dull ache radiated in his pelvis, and his brain pounded like a bass-drum on his skull. He shifted to the side, instinctively rubbing the pain at his hip—but someone grabbed hold of his hand and moved it away.

“No,” a woman cooed. “That’s your incision. You just had surgery.”

His eyes fluttered open, finding the lights bright and painful above his head. “Dr. Tuso said the surgery was successful,” she assured him. “You’ll be bruised and sore for the next few weeks, but you need to leave the incision site alone, okay?” She was speaking to him loud and slow, as though he was an eighty-year-old man in need of a hearing aid.

He stared at the pink carafe on the bedside table. His mouthwas so dry that it felt like cotton was lodged in his throat. Then, in his peripheral vision, he realized someone else was in the room. He turned toward the bedside chair, and the anesthesia instantly lifted.

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