Those last words feel raw and painful on my throat, and for a flash of a moment it seems they cause Dr. Livingstone pain as well.
I discreetly slip the doctor’s card into my purse and take Corbin’s arm. “I got turned around coming back from the restroom. Shall we join the party?”
Corbin is glaring at Dr. Livingstone, but I pull him away and refocus him with small talk, my eyes flicking to the doctor as we part. There’s a longing in his eyes that matches the inexplicable emotions welling within me, but this is not the time or place to unpack that confusion.
The last thing I want is for Corbin to get angry in front of all these people.
“I’m so glad you found me,” I say with a forced giggle. Ugh. I want to gag myself right now. “Did I miss anyone important?”
Corbin’s face lights up, the mysterious doctor forgotten as he tells me all about the biggest donors and how we’ve been invited to a yacht party in two weeks. Of course we won’t go. We never go to events that require exposure to the sun. Corbin has always been sensitive to the sun, to the point he was hospitalized once. Now we structure our lives to revolve around the evenings. Still, he’s excited to have been invited and it sounds like we will be hosting a dinner for them instead.
“You’ll have to organize with Maurice to make sure the menu is perfect,” he says, referring to our chef.
I nod. I hate planning dinner parties, but it’s a small price to pay for the life of luxury I enjoy, I suppose.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of alcohol, auctions, dinner, and small talk. I don’t see the sexy doctor again, and any ghostly apparitions that might be haunting me seem to have left for the night as well.
My body is stiff and tired when we get home, and I feign a headache when Corbin leans into me, his body hard with desire. The thought of being with him tonight feels…wrong. Like I’d be cheating—which doesn’t make sense. But then, nothing about this night has made sense.
The next morning I rush out after a quick cup of coffee, leaving Corbin asleep in our darkened bedroom.
Even though I know what I saw last night was impossible, I have to be sure.
My heart is pounding against my ribs like an agitated bird when I arrive at the long-term care facility. I don’t use the driver when Corbin’s not with me, preferring to use my own car for personal errands and school, despite his displeasure. The one good thing about his nocturnal ways is the freedom it affords me during the day. Though he insists I stay up all night with him most nights, so it’s a balancing act that often leaves me exhausted.
At least I think it does.
Since yesterday, thoughts about my life with Corbin have been feeling murkier, like they are less reality and more a dream.
Sitting in my car in the parking lot, I take a deep breath and pull out the business card from Dr. Livingstone. Maybe I will give him a call. I could use someone to talk to, someone who might help me clear my mind of whatever madness is taking hold in there.
That panic arises again, and I push it away head into the building I’m parked in front of.
I’m greeted by a chipper nurse who smiles in recognition when I walk in. “Celeste, what a surprise. You don’t usually visit until Sunday.”
“I know,” I say, “but I needed to see her.”
The nurse nods knowingly. “She’ll be so happy you’re here.”
I’m doubtful of that, but keep my reservations to myself. Nurse Lacey means well, and I’d like to think she’s right, even if it is a bit wishful. It’s why I come weekly, no matter what my schedule, in hopes that it makes a small difference in her care.
The hallways are sterile and there’s a faint smell of disinfectant that covers an underlying scent of body odor and disease. I’ve always hated hospitals, and long term care facilities are even worse. Thanks to Corbin, I can afford the best care. I can only imagine what the low-end facilities are like.
We reach her room and the nurse opens the door for me. “She’s been the same. No change in her condition.”
I nod, not surprised. No one anticipates a change in her condition, and sometimes I wonder if this limbo is