Page 19 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight

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“It turns out there’s not a lot of options on hospital cable.”

Simple words.

But spoken tartly? And paired with a small smirk and dancing brown eyes?

Yup. So totally fucked.

Then she keeps talking, unwinding the ancient-looking remote from the bedrail and handing it over to me. “Want to try your luck at finding something better, hot shot?”

Oh fuck.

More tart. More smirking.

More danger.

“Or not,” she says and I realize I’ve been staring at her, not answering, same as I haven’t taken the remote from her, haven’t done my best to find something that isn’t the stupid ass game show I should have just sat here and watched in silence in the first place.

Sat here smoothing over my conscience, the nagging emotions that filled my last hours.

Worrying about her being here.

Alone.

“You don’t have to be here, Gray. I’m fine.” Her lips curve up into a smile, but I have the distinct notion that it’s fake.

And I hate that.

I don’t know why I hate the idea that she’s pretending with me, that she’s hiding parts of herself from me.

She’s my neighbor.

I know nothing about her.

But…maybe I want to?

“I think you should go,” she murmurs. “I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

Goddammit.

Now I feel like a dick.

I am exhausted. And I have a game tomorrow. I should go.

Visiting hours are over—something the nurse advised me of when I first came in. Shift change had occurred and no hockey fans I could win over with smiles and autographs were around. In fact, I had to sweet-talk my way in so I could come and make a mess of this conversation with Faye.

Christ. Why do I always fuck things up?

I grind my teeth together, shame rippling?—

And watch her body tense on the bed.

She opens her mouth (and I know it’s to tell me to go again).

“I’ll find something better,” I blurt, snagging the remote and starting to click.

Spoiler alert: I don’t find anything better.

First, there’s like ten channels.

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