Page 84 of Unwanted

It was like the last forty-eight hours of bliss in Seattle hadn’t happened.

Right now we were strangers, and I had no idea how to fix it.

When I received those texts from Lennox, my heart dropped to my stomach.

For a single millisecond, I thought he was talking about Arlo.

My face must’ve shown my immediate horror, because in that moment I had imagined a hundred different scenarios; all of them ended up with me alone.

And all Arlo saw was me doubting him.

Between that and tonight’s events, I was certain Arlo was in a world of hurt and confusion.

If my mind had taken me back to the night we never spoke about, I imagined his had too.

We both hurry out of the vehicle and race to the front desk. I’m about to ask them to lead us to Rhys, when Arlo beats me to it.

“I’m here to see Rhys Denser,” he says. “I’m Arlo Bishop, his next of kin.”

“Can I see your ID please.” Arlo pulls out his wallet and plucks out his drivers licence. The receptionist inspects it and then taps away at the keyboard and then writes down a room number on a post-it and hands it to him. “He’s been moved out of ICU,” she advises. “Just take the elevators to your left to the seventh floor.”

Arlo’s strides are huge, and I struggle to catch up.

“Arlo,” I call out.

He doesn’t slow down or pay me any mind.

We reach the elevators and he furiously stabs at the button.

“Arlo,” I repeat.

Silence.

The elevator dings, and when the doors open to show an empty cart, my body sags in relief.

We both step in, Arlo refusing to look anywhere but the floor.

“Arlo,” I say softly. “Arlo, talk to me.”

He raises his head, his eyes full of defeat and exhaustion. “You thought it was me,” he says, the words almost inaudible but still full of so much pain. “When you received those messages from Lennox, you thought it was me.”

I try to move closer to him, but he rears his body into the back of the elevator.

“It wasn’t like that,” I argue.

“Did you or did you not think I’d relapsed?”

“Arlo, please,” I choke out.

“Answer. The. Question.”

“It was a split second,” I confess, my voice cracking. “Even less than that.”

My stomach drops to my feet when he slams a closed fist into the elevator wall.

“The worst part…” His voice is like gravel. “The worst part is youshouldalways be worried it’s me.”

“I am always worried it’s you,” I shout. “But I am worriedforyou. Every night for four years, I close my eyes and all I see is you in that hospital bed. You getting your stomach pumped, fighting for your life.” I watch my words hit him like a whip, every single part of him. But I can’t stop. I won’t stop. “So yes, I amalwaysworried.” Using all my strength I throw myself at him. I grab his shirt and stare into his pained eyes. “Everyday, I am worried that I will wake up one day and the person I love most in this world won’t wake up with me.”

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