The fun thing about hospitals was that you could leave the room and the patient thought you were gone.
What was she gonna do, get up and check?
Ok, I admitted it may also be the creepy thing about hospitals.
Reluctantly, I slipped out of the room and spotted Cary, the nurse who I knew was well-versed in all things Tate Halloway, but had a terminal case of tight lip.
“Don’t look at me like that.” She caught my gaze as she flitted through clipboards and used the information to erase and update the enormous whiteboard behind her, conveniently wiping away Tate’s information before I could see it.
I sauntered up to the nurses’ station, making sure to stay out of view of Tate’s room.
“Nothing?”
She waved her finger at me, without turning around, in a negative answer.
It was worth a try.
Anyway, knowing whatever was wrong with Tate felt—intimate. It felt like something a guy in a relationship with her would know. He would know her favorite shirt. He would know what rides to take her on at a carnival. He would know why she crinkled her nose when she saw animals right before she bent down to pluck them off the ground and smother them.
I didn’t know those things anymore about the girl turned woman lying physically frail, but mentally fierce in the bed not so far away.
She didn’t need me in there—obviously didn’t want me in there.
Nope—that’s what boyfriends did.
And I am not anyone’s boyfriend to be used to hold their hands and hold their hearts while another held her hair while they screwed her into oblivion.