Page 63 of He Should Be Mine
The words hit like a slap.
“Yes,” I say.
Not because it’s true. But because it’s what I need to say, I need to keep Riccardo’s secret. And because something awful inside me aches to say it anyway.
The nurse gives me a curt nod and disappears behind the doors.
And I’m left standing in the waiting room, hands cold and empty, like I’ve just put something precious down and I’m not sure I’ll get it back.
There’s a clipboard offered in my direction. A woman in scrubs stands stiffly in front of me, her mouth a tight line, her expression unreadable.
“We’ll need to take some basic information,” she says.
I know that look. I’ve seen it a hundred times in a hundred places. She thinks I am a monster.
She thinks I did this. She thinks he’s mine in all the worst ways. She saw all his bruises, the fingerprints that scream ownership, and assumed they were mine.
For a second, I want to tell her. I want to spit Riccardo’s name like poison. I want to tell her that this has nothing to do with me. I want to scream that if I could’ve taken every blow for him, I would have. I long to tell her that hetrusts me to carry him when he can’t walk, that he held my hand for hours, and that I would burn this entire city to the ground if it meant keeping him safe.
But instead, I take the clipboard and sit down like a man under suspicion.
Because right now, there are no good truths. Only the weight of his heat still lingering in my arms, and the hollow ache where his laughter should be.
So I sit where they tell me. Fill out what I can on the clipboard. Name. Age. Known allergies. Emergency contact. My handwriting looks like it was done during an earthquake. It’s tight, angry scratches of pen on paper. It’s all lies and half-truths anyway.
The receptionist at the desk glances over at me now and then. I can feel her eyes. I don’t look back. I don’t want to see what’s written on her face.
She thinks I hurt him.
Not just her. The guy at the vending machine gave me the same glance. So did the orderly who walked past ten minutes ago.
I don’t blame them. I look the part. Too broad. Too quiet. Dressed in an expensive black suit. A darkness in my eyes that makes me look more like a murderer than a protector. Whereas Molly is small, delicate. He could charm birds from the trees with that smile of his. If I saw the two of us walking down the street and didn’t know better, I’d assume the same damn thing.
Still. It eats at me.
I lean forward in the cheap plastic chair, elbows on my knees, trying to scrub the smell of hospital disinfectant from my nose. I can still feel his weight in my arms. The heat of him. The way his fingers curled weakly into myshirt like he was trying to anchor himself. The way he whispered “don’t leave” just before he passed out.
He’s never asked me for anything. Not really. Not like that.
I didn’t say a word back. Just carried him inside like he was the only thing that mattered.
Because he is.
“Mr. Smith?” a voice says. Speaking the false name I gave them.
I look up. A new nurse. Younger this time. She’s holding a tablet, eyes flicking between me and the notes in front of her.
“We’re running a fever panel. Flu, RSV, COVID, and a few others,” she says. “We’ve got him on fluids and oxygen. His vitals are rough, but he’s stable for now.”
I nod. “Can I see him?”
Her mouth tightens just a little. “He’s resting. We’ll let you in when we can.”
There’s hesitation in her voice. Professional courtesy doesn’t hide it well. She thinks he needs protection. From me.
“Look,” I say, voice low. “Whatever you think happened…”
She cuts me off. “We don’t make assumptions here.”
