“Why are you mad at yourself, Zeth?”
“Because…you’re leaving,” he says, his words taking some effort to get out. A bolt of something painful and too hot races through my veins, lighting me up. He thinks I’m leaving? I have to take a moment to consider that. If he already thinks it, then maybe I should. Maybe I should walk out of the door and never look back. As quickly as I consider this option, I know it’s just never going to happen.
“Why do you say that?” I walk farther into the room and sit carefully on the edge of the table where he’s pinned under the weight of the drugs coursing through his body.
“Because of this…because of…me.”
I have no doubt in my mind that he wouldn’t be talking like this if he were fighting fit. He’d be growling something about me doing whatever the hell I wanted and how everything was my choice. But I think the drugs might be loosening that tongue of his a little bit.
“Yeah, well. I’m not gonna say that you probably handled the hospital situation a little rashly, but I’m not blind, Zeth. I see the underlying motive.”
Zeth grunts, shaking his head slowly, as though he’s suddenly caught himself thinking something he doesn’t want to be thinking. Such a huge man, covered in ink, with a fierce hardness to him that often fools others—but I’ve seen this side of Zeth hiding underneath the cold exterior. I’ve just been waiting to meet him properly.
I reach for his hand, not caring anymore. Not caring about my pride, or his arrogance, or both of our stupidity. I’ve questioned myself, and I’ve questioned him countless times, and I’ve doubted the both of us as many times, too, but that’s not the way things are going to be anymore. This is the turning point. This is where I stop holding back. This is where I become his. Nearly losing him twice has made me realize that I really want him. Want this. Want us. And I’m going to have it. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
Zeth’s pupils are like the lens of a camera enlarging and contracting, desperately trying to focus properly. This might be a bad time to do this, but it’s happening all the same. I lace my fingers through his, the rough callouses on his palms and fingers reminding me that he works with his fists. I accept that. Right now, I’m accepting him. He blinks at me again, and then a faint attempt at a cocky smile works across his face.
“Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he says softly.
I can only laugh. “Against all the odds, no,” I admit. “I can’t.”
“Then I’m a happy man, Dr. Romera,” he says, letting his eyelids sink closed for a moment. “Because from the moment I saw you…I haven’t stood a chance.” He wiggles his fingers, and I realize he’s trying to free his hand. Disappointment rushes through me—he still can’t hold hands with me?—but then he heaves his arm up high over his head and leaves it there, waiting. “Are you coming up here or what?” he asks.
He wants me to lie on the table with him. He’s covered in sweat and blood, and he looks like hell, but quite frankly there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be. In that small, concentrated action, the last fragile piece of my heart that I’ve been trying to keep back, to keep for myself, is suddenly lost. It’s all his. It’s wrapped itself entirely around him, and I have no hope of ever getting it back again. I climb as carefully as I can up onto the table and I let my head gently rest on his shoulder; his arm encircles me, and I feel like doing something utterly ridiculous—I feel like crying. We haven’t been here before, but this, me and him together, our bodies pressed close—and not only pressed close, but with him pulling me even closer—it feels like we were made to fit together like this all along, and if we’d only just given in and tried it, we would have seen that right at the beginning.
“What’s this?” Zeth asks, quietly murmuring the words into my hair. His hand is resting on my side, over the pocket of my now totally disgusting scrub pants. I reach inside, and I pull out the orange envelope that I found this morning, at the beginning of the worst shift in the history of all time.
“Oh, yeah. I meant to read this earlier.” I open it carefully, feeling a pinch of regret. I already suspect I know what this is; when I slide the thick, engraved card out from inside the envelope, my suspicions are confirmed. “You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Ms. Rebecca Gibbs to Mr. Suresh Patel, on November thirtieth of this year. Festivities will be hosted at The Grand Alms Hotel, commencing at eleven a.m. for the service and vows,” I read. Yeah, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t immensely sad right now. After listening to Suresh talk about it for so long, I’ve actually been looking forward to his wedding. I run my fingers over the paper once more, and then I slide the card back inside the envelope.