Page 136 of Promise Me Nothing
The good thing about the pain I’ve put my body through with this run is that most of my attention is focused on where I ache. I know I’m going to be feeling this for a while.
It’s slow-going as I try to peel off all my clothes, my socks, my shoes. Every muscles protests, my brain barely able to take control enough to get me up and into the shower.
I soak there for a long time. A really long time. Lay on the tiled floor under cold water, under hot water, pull myself up onto the bench and examine my poor, battered feet. It looks like I might lose a toenail, a bruise forming underneath one already.
Once I’ve cleaned, soaked, dried and changed, I crawl straight into bed, not worrying about anyone but myself. I don’t care if Lucas is right outside my door, worrying and waiting.
He can wait forever.
I’m gonna take a fucking nap.
When I wake, it’s dark outside. I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep, but I know it isn’t long enough.
My stomach revolts, though, promising evil retribution if I don’t put something inside of it. So I reluctantly attempt to get up, wincing and nearly crying with how tired I am.
I make slow work of heading down to the kitchen, intent on grabbing some leftovers. But I’m stopped dead in my tracks when I see Lucas and Wyatt sitting at the dining room table, their eyes zipping to mine as I round a corner and come into their line of sight.
“Hannah, please…” Wyatt starts, standing quickly, his chair scraping the floor.
I put a hand up. “I can’t today. Whatever you have to say…” I shudder, a sob making its way through my body.
But I tamp that bitch down.
I willnotbe crying in front of these… assholes, who betrayed me in a way that I doubt can ever be undone.
Surprisingly, they listen. Allow me to head into the kitchen and pull a leftover helping of chicken and rice out of the fridge to warm up in the microwave.
But not saying anything isn’t the same as leaving me alone, and when I turn around, I see Wyatt hovering on the other side of the island.
If I were more mature, I might pay attention to the worry on his face, the concern in his eyes, how pained he looks or even the fact that this is a moment when he looks so entirely unsure when he has always been a man of decisive action since the moment we met.
That’s not where I am, though.
I’mnotmore mature, and while I might notice those things, they don’t matter to me.
Not right now.
Not when I’m still trying to figure out how I feel, where I stand in all of this.
“Tell me something,” I say to Wyatt, holding my plate of food.
He perks up, like a dog desperate for any bit of attention.
“What’s wrong with Ivy?”
His head falls forward, his eyes searching the marble countertops as if they hold the answer to my question.
“She has PNH. Paroxysmal Nocturnal Hemoglobinuria. It’s a disease in her blood. She needs a bone marrow transplant.”
My heart pains for the sweet girl I know. To be so young and have so much at risk. She has her whole life ahead of her, a life that could contain so much pain or be shortened far too quickly.
“Why do you want it from me?”
He pauses, glances off to the side, almost as if he isn’t sure he wants to tell me. But then he swallows, looks back at me. “Bone marrow is more likely to be a match from siblings.”
Another pause, while I’m trying to figure out how I would be involved. I feel like there’s something I’m not understanding. Something that…
“Ivy’s dad is Henry Morrison.”
