were something I could do."
"You're thinking about her. You're sending her good vibes, positive energy. That's all you can do, but don't kick yourself over anything. Your mom knows how much you love her and how worried you are."
When the woman walks away, I see the scar on the back of her head going from the nape of her neck, all the way to the top. I want to ask her about it, but I already know as much as I perhaps should. She had some sort of surgery and seems to be in recovery.
Looking through the books again, I choose seven titles that I hope will let me think about something other than my own issues: a few heart-pounding thrillers, two suspense novels about marriage issues and lies and secrets, and a couple of dark romances.
"That will be $7.50," she says, pounding into the ancient cash register.
When a little receipt prints out, she hands it to me. I hand her the cash, and she offers a bag, but I decline. I have a whole stash of them at the hotel that I don't know what to do with.
I walk all the way back to the hotel, enjoying the slightly warmer air. The clouds are hanging low now, filtering the sunset, creating bright yellow and gold hues over the horizon.
I wanted to go see more of this place. It looks beautiful, full of nature and wilderness and people that are a lot nicer than they are back home. But, of course, I can't do that. My life is tied to the hospital now.
Holding onto the books, I reach into my pocket to retrieve the door key. It all becomes rather precarious when the books start to shift. I lift up my foot to try to keep them in place with my knee. Just as I push the door key into the slot and it dings green, the books come tumbling to the floor.
"Shit," I mumble to myself.
"Can I help you with that?"
A familiar voice sends shivers up my spine.
No, it can't be him, I say to myself. No, don't even think that.
I turn around slowly, my eyes going all the way, starting from his gray slim-cut suit. The white button down shirt is tucked into his belt, and he's not wearing a tie.
I'm afraid to meet his eyes. I look at his strong jawline and the slightly parted lips and I know exactly who it is.
"Dante?" I ask. "What are you doing here?"
"I was in town for business, so I thought I would say hi."
He kneels down to pick up my books.
My heart starts to thump out of my chest.
“But why are you here?" I ask him while he holds my book collection in his hands, waiting for me to open the door.
I hesitate.
"Look, if you want me to leave, just tell me. But I was worried about you. I thought that you'd want someone to talk to during this difficult time."
“So, you just showed up?"
He nods. "Was that wrong?"
"I don't know."
I shake my head, blood thumping through my brain, and I can practically hear it slosh around.
“Here, let me just drop these off for you, and I can go."
I open the door, and we walk into the dark one-bedroom apartment hotel with a small college-sized refrigerator in the corner and a small microwave on top.
I flip on the light because the one window with heavy curtains doesn't provide enough of it.
There's a durable but rather uncomfortable couch right near the front door, and I ask him if he wants anything to drink.
"What do you have?" he asks, plopping the books onto the reddish brown wooden table that has been serving as both a dining room and an office. "You've got quite a haul here. Going to be busy."
I nod, walking over to the kitchenette and grabbing two glasses, filling them with water.
"This is all I have.” I hand one to him.
"You know, I thought that you'd be more of a Kindle kind of reader."
"I am," I say, shifting my weight from one foot to another, realizing that I'm still wearing my boots and my coat. "I just saw the thrift store and haven't read a paperback in a while."
"Well, they look interesting,” Dante says, going through the book covers.
Suddenly, I have a flashback to being a kid.
I used to devour Sweet Valley High books, borrowing them from the library. But every time that my dad saw the covers, he just made fun of me, saying that they were stupid,