Page 112 of Dead Set on You
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWOTWO WEEKS LATER
I’m finally home and alone.
It took all of another week—six days, to be exact—to walk the length of the corridor for Dr. Wagner and to pass a few other tests before she signed my discharge papers, telling me I’d need to give it another week before I resumed normal activities, like work, which I still haven’t inquired about, even when Dana and a few of my team members texted to check in. The temptation to know about the status of OhLaLove and Rafael made my fingers itch, but I was too “frail” (cowardly) to ask, so I updated them on my health and progress instead.
I’ll face the music on Monday—thirty-one days since I was last there—when I meet with Dana and see what’s next for me.
But I promised the doc I wouldn’t stress. Yet.
I have an entire weekend to settle back into my life without the incessant mothering of Gemma, who unsurprisingly roped Cristina into a twenty-four-hour-a-day mission to keep me comfortable and relaxed. I wasoneof those things in the last week ofbeing coddled and fed (and almost bathed, which only my vehement opposition prevented).It’s from a good place,I had to remind myself every time they popped their heads into my bedroom with another bowl of soup or a cup of tea. Still, I nearly hugged my door when it closed behind them earlier.
It’s finally quiet. No monitors or beeping. No medical staff or hospital noises. No Gemma or Cristina. Just silence. I soak it in as I settle at my kitchen counter, which is now cluttered with bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolate and cookies—gifts from friends and coworkers. A beautiful orchid from Charlene. A homemade card from Cristina’s granddaughter. And to my shock, another gift from Rafael.
Mildly curious, I carefully unfold the note attached to it.#8—From Yours Truly. It’s nonsense in his scrawl. I crinkle my nose at his choice of sign-off.As if.
Reluctant, I open the package to discoverMadrigal’s Magic Key to Spanish. I flip through the pages, hoping another note will explain the meaning behind the gift. I’ve tried to learn Spanish several times, and most of those times it was an attempt to start deciphering Rafael’s rapid-fire Spanish conversations. If his “gift” is meant to taunt me, I’m only mildly annoyed by it (because I’m not allowed to feel anything but superrelaxed). When—and if—I decide to learn Spanish, I’ll do it on my own terms, thank you very much.
I ball up his note and drag myself to my bedroom, where I practically melt into my bed, into the down comforter and pillows, because—between a near-death experience, two weeks of being in a coma, and two more weeks in recovery—the post-coma exhaustion is real, and not that I’d admit it, I don’t think I’m completely fixed.
I press a hand to my chest.
Even though it wasn’t my heart that was hurt, it’s the part that feels the sorest, like it was pulled out of me, altered in asubstantial way, and shoved back into my chest, where it doesn’t quite fit the same.
Like I lost a part of me I might never recover.
Nothing a good sleep won’t fix.
I wake up in a panic, my heart skittering against my rib cage. My phone tells me I’ve slept for six hours, yet somehow I feel worse than before I napped.
The gnawing sensation that was contained to my chest seems to have spread while I slept. I try to rub the sensation away. To breathe and relax.
When it doesn’t immediately happen, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water. I gulp it down, pour another, and lean against the marble counter, nudging Rafael’s crumpled note with my elbow. I set the glass down and smooth down the paper, imagining his tanned fingers and hand moving across the paper. Him smiling his insufferable smirk.
#8. Yours Truly.
He’s not the best with words, but this meansnothing. A bunch of nonsense. A joke only he understands.
Number eight? What in the hell does that have to do with anything?
The Spanish guide stares at me from beside the note.
And it hits me, like a wrecking ball to the brain.
#8: Learn Spanish.
My bucket list. One that Rafael apparently knows about.
Taking a deep, deep breath, I try tothink, think, thinkabout how he could have gotten his backstabbing hands on it. Sure, I’ve crossed some boundaries in our rivalry, but myplanner?
God! I could just … tear out his hair. He doesn’t even deserve those luscious locks. And when he runs his handsthrough his hair … watching me from across a dance floor, senior citizens around us, a tango playing in the background and my heart thumping to the beat …
I blink, confused by the images.
But there are others.
A man in a poncho lights candles in my living room. People and food and music fill a backyard. Rafael and I are standing oh-so-close in my guest bath. In his apartment, pots and pans on the stove, Rafael is tasting soup while explaining the magic of chilis. We’re wading in the lake in the middle of the night, playing truth or dare. My breathing stops. Andohmygod.
I sink to the kitchen floor with a thump.
