Page 33 of Someone Knows

His eyes do a quick sweep over my body, and he grins. “Right. All woman. That’s for shit-sure.” He steps closer. My heart races, but I stand my ground. Noah brushes hair from my shoulder. “You’re really beautiful.”

Something about his voice, the Southern drawl I haven’t heard in ages, makes butterflies flutter in my belly—some a little lower, too. “Thank you.”

He leans in and takes a deep inhale. “Smell damn good, too.”

“It must be the hospital.”

He grins, undeterred, and brushes his nosealong the pulse line in my neck. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you last night when I got home.” He groans. “What happened in that bathroom was something else.”

My eyes shut, my head lolls back, giving him better access. Hot breath tickles my skin. Noah’s mouth moves to my ear. “Can I kiss you again, Elizabeth? Touch you again?”

I want to say no, but I also want to forget—forget my mom is dying, forget about Hannah Greer, forget about Louisiana. Plus, I really want to feel his body press up against mine again. Though, with my life spinning so out of control lately, I need to be the one to take the lead. Without saying anything, I put my palm to his chest, nudge him back not-too-gently. He takes one, two, three steps backward. When the backs of his knees hit the couch, I give him a good push, and he falls down onto it. Then I climb on his lap, straddle his hips, and seal my mouth over his.

I’m momentarily thrown by how soft his lips are now. But then Noah’s tongue dips inside, his fingers dig into my hair, and he winds a clump of it around his fist and holds me tight once again. Soft goes out the window after that. I started this, and I’m on top, but somehow it feels like he’s kissing me and not the other way around, like he’s topping from the bottom. And . . . I like it. I like how aggressive he is, how tight his grip is. My eyes roll into the back of my head when he pushes up and grinds a steely erection against me through his jeans. One of his big hands grips my hip and starts to move me back and forth. It feels so damn good, the friction hitting the perfect spot . . . But then a cell phone rings. I try to ignore it, dive further into the kiss to block it out—but Noah pulls back. “Should you get that? It could be the hospital.”

I blink a few times.Shit.He’s right. And what the hell am I doing anyway? I climb off him and look around for where the sound is coming from. The kitchen. My purse.

“Hello?”

“Is this ElizabethDavis?”

“Yes?”

“This is Kate Stern. I’m a nurse at Memorial Hospital.”

“What happened?”

“Your mother’s stats have dropped. We might need to intubate. The notes show you weren’t sure if your mother had a living will or an advance directive.”

I shake my head. “I was going to look for one when I got home. But I didn’t get a chance yet.”

“Can you do that now and call me back?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

I swipe the phone and head to my mother’s bedroom—to the file cabinet she used to keep in her closet. I don’t even know if it’s there anymore. A man’s voice startles me—I’d completely forgotten Noah was even here.

“What happened?” He stands. “Is everything okay?”

I keep walking without stopping. “No. I’m sorry. You should go. I need to get back to the hospital.”

CHAPTER

15

The temperature in this hospital room seems to have dropped a couple more degrees. My fingers are cold, my toes frozen inside my shoes. Or maybe I’m in shock, staring across the room at my mother. I want to call herlifeless, but as that may literally be the truth soon, I can’t bring myself to think it. Rather, she’s motionless—eyes closed tight, head at a slightly awkward angle, a tube protruding from between her lips. Next to the bed, a machine breathes for her, loud mechanical inhales and exhales mixed with beeps. The screen is lit up, white, blue, green, red—numbers I can’t make sense of.

I couldn’t find any paperwork detailing what kind of medical care she wanted, no DNR or advance directive, not even a will. By the time I arrived, they’d already put the breathing tube in.

The nurse who’s been here all day comes by. She stops in the doorway. “Hi, Ms. Davis. I just wanted to let you know, I’ll be leaving soon. The night nurse will be Michael, and he’ll be by to check in with you shortly.” She smiles. “You’re in good hands with him.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Is it really late enough to be night already? I guess so. Outside the small window, it’s grown dark. It feels like an hour ago I was pouring coffee and packing a bag,planning on saying goodbye to Mom and disappearing back to New York, knowing that in a month or two or three, I’d get a call telling me she was gone.

I hadn’t let myself think about that part. About how I’d feel—would I cry then? I swallow bitter hospital-cafeteria coffee and gaze at her, skin and bones beneath the white sheet and teal-green blanket printed with the hospital logo. She wasn’t a good mom. In fact, she was pretty shitty. Mostly because of the alcohol—at least that’s what I want to think. It’s easier if I have something to blame it on. It wasn’t that she didn’t care to come home or make sure I had dinner—it was the vodka. Addiction brings out the ugly in people. It hits me that I should probably make sure the nurse knows she’s a drinker. Will she have withdrawals, even here in the hospital, sedated with a breathing tube down her throat?

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