Page 196 of Finding Hope

He turns on his heels and pushes past Luc before I can get oxygen back into my lungs.

“Shit.” Eyes shooting between Jack’s back and me, Luc grits his teeth. “I’m sorry, Brat. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No. It’s…” I sigh. I don’t even know whatitis. “It’s whatever.” I shake my head and lie back. “Shitty timing, Luc.”

He steps into the room and dumps his chocolate stash on the cabinet beside my bed.

Beside a bouquet of pink daisies.

“I can chase him down. I don’t mind.”

I look out into the hallway – it’s already empty.

He’s long gone.

Sighing and fighting against the tears that prickle the backs of my eyes, I shake my head. “He’s gone. Don’t worry about it.”

Jack said sorry for calling me names, but he never once said he’s sorry for breaking up with me. He never once said he wanted to get back together.

We’re still over, and now that’s he’s had a chance to apologize, he can walk away with a clear conscience.

Weeks afterfinallybeing discharged from the sterile and depressing hospital, I pick my pillows up off my bed and toss them to my bedroom floor in a heap.

Nothing.

I tear my blankets away, then my old stuffed doll that’s made a surprise return the last few weeks while I sleep and need a hug.

I can’t find it.

I toss the covers to the floor, then peel my sheets up.

Still nowhere to be found.

Dammit!

I grab my pillows from the bottom of the pile and pull the cases off. Maybe the universe is playing a sick joke on me, maybe the universe enjoys watching my panic, but still, I can’t find it.

My left arm, casted and decorated, makes my movements slow and clunky, but at least the deep throb of pain has gone. It took the better part of a month to stop waking me in my sleep. Finally, I’m used to the plaster taking up my arm from elbow to fingers, and the itch has finally slowed to a light tingle.

I’ve lost more than a couple pencils in my effort to scratch an itch that was sending me insane.

I’ll get those back when I lose the cast.

“Brat?”

“Alex.” I turn to my door and huff out an impatient breath. “I can’t find it!”

“Still?” Frowning, he steps into my room and begins moving books around on my side table. He leans over the back to see if it fell down there. “It has to be here somewhere.”

“Well, it’s not!” My stomach rolls with grief. “I need it back, X.”

“It’s okay.” He drops to his hands and knees and looks under my bed. “We’ll find it, I promise. You need to take a breath and trust the process. I’m a cop. I detect shit for a living.”

I turn to the chair in the corner and start tossing clothes off. “What if we don’t?”

Jesus, I’m on the edge of a full-blown panic attack.

I woke up this morning and realized it was gone. Nowhere to be found. I’ve spent the last five hours tearing my house apart and leaving chaos behind in every room.

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