ma’am?” She’s blocking my way to the rooms. Normally I’d cringe, play by the rules, and this would be the end of my task. Not now. I focus my eyes on the large, black wart on her chin.
I tuck my long, deflated, brown hair behind my ears and square my shoulders. “I’m here to see Maverick Hart. I’m his s…significant other,” I say, knowing full well only family members are allowed in the hospital rooms. The lie of sister just wouldn’t pass my lips. Burly Wart Nurse clears her throat. She looks to be contemplating something and then merely shrugs, shaking her head. “Second door on the right. Good luck, honey.” Good luck? She ambles back to the nurse’s station and I’m left staring at her wide back, not believing she is just going to let me go in. I didn’t even have to lie. Wrapping my sweater around me a little tighter, I head for his room. It should be a good sign that he’s on this non-ICU-floor of the hospital, but all I feel standing in front of his door, room number 143, is stone-cold terror. Just survive, I think.
Good luck? I push open the door and a melody of beeps ambushes me. The room is dark—of course, because I flew all day to get here, it is now night.
“Who are you?” The voice cuts through the darkness. It’s not a familiar voice and I automatically assume it’s another nurse. I swipe my sweaty palms down my jeans. I can’t talk yet. It’s physically impossible until I see him—his face, his lips, his hands. I want to see all of him. My heart thumps wildly, taking away my breath, thinking of the last time I saw him. I shuffle my feet forward, bringing me closer to the bed in the middle of the room. I see the monitors casting an ominous glow on the white sheets.
A side-light clicks on. Not even caring what or who turned on a light, I take in Maverick. He is battered and bruised, but he’s here. He’s alive. He is so perfect. Light brown hair peeks out from beneath the bandages around his head. His strong jawline has a sprinkling of scruff surrounding his pink lips. His hazel eyes are closed, but best of all, his chest rises up and down. A woman clears her throat. I startle.
“I’m going to ask one more time before I call security. Who the hell are you?” she says. I see her then, her long blonde hair piled on the top of her head in a messy topknot. She is sitting on a cot, covered in a sheet. I have obviously woken her up. I also realize I have no clue who in the hell she is either. I take a step closer to the bed.
“I’m Windsor,” I say.
“Forbes,” the woman finishes for me, knowing eyes narrowing as she takes me in. Her voice is acidic. I’m not even sure how I know, but I do. With one word the woman has said everything. She’s involved with Maverick in some way.
“Who are you?” I try to stop my shaking hands because I don’t want to disturb Mav. I know people in a coma can sometimes sense or hear things. As horrendous as it sounds, I just hope he stays sleeping for a little bit longer. “I’m his girlfriend,” I proclaim. I never would have said something so bold before. The man unconscious in this hospital bed taught me to stand up for myself.
She laughs.
I should have called. Why didn’t I call before I came here? I feel so stupid. And now, standing in front of another woman I’m panicked, the sheen breaking across my forehead as proof.
“Sweetheart, I’m his wife,” she says, motioning to her bed, and her obvious family status.
At once, it’s like I am the one with a body full of shrapnel. A swift shock of pain starts in my stomach and creeps up to my heart, wrapping around it like a plague. That one sentence from her perfect lips chokes me of air, robs me of everything. I want to call her a liar, but I know she’s not.
I look down at Maverick, still breathing, machines beeping all around him, and tears blur my vision. I knew he was messed up—really messed up–and I still got involved. This is what I get.
All the memories of us wash over me at once. The tender touches, the sweet words, the molten gazes from across the room,