3. Elle

THREE

Elle

1:04 am

What the actual fuck? Shep Duncan, the man I figured was relegated to the wax museum of my life, is a surgeon in the hospital where I'm being held prisoner. And he stopped by for a casual hello at one in the morning.

I could consider the fact that my ex from another lifetime is around here somewhere a plus. See, technically, I'm not as entirely alone as I thought I was.

I buried the memories of Shep, the feelings of abandonment and rejection many moons ago. I tucked them away in the dark corners of my mind where they couldn't hurt me anymore.

But seeing him again, here in Birmingham, the city he left me for, brings everything rushing back. The love, the betrayal, the heartbreak.

We were so young, so full of dreams about what our life together would be like. We had just graduated from college, and both of us were ready to attack the world. I had just gotten this incredible job offer in Gainesville, where we both already lived. It was everything I had worked for.

I knew Shep had acceptance letters to three highly desired medical schools, all in the Southeast. He had his choice of where to go, but only one school would allow us to stay together and pursue our dreams as a couple.

When I told him about my job offer, I expected support, maybe even excitement. Instead, I got an "aw shucks, hate we will be in different cities."

I was dumbfounded. He hadn't said he'd decided where he was going to med school before I told him about my job offer. I accused him of choosing a school in a different city just to spite me.

"I've worked my whole life for this, Elle. I'm not going to pick a school willy-nilly just because it is convenient. I have to choose the right program for what I want to do. You should be willing to move if you really care about us."

I-I-I . That's all I heard. It was all about Shep Duncan. His words cut deep. How could he not see that my career and aspirations were just as important as his?

We argued louder and harsher than we ever had before. "You're asking me to give up everything I've worked for, Shep," I pleaded, tears streaming down my face. "I don't have an offer or even a prospect in Birmingham. If you cared about us, you'd accept Florida. We could make it work. I will support you while you go to school, so all you have to think about is your studies."

But he had already made up his mind. He had made up his mind, leaving me feeling like an afterthought. It felt like the only thing that mattered to him was him.

I still remember the look in his eyes when he said he was leaving. It was as if he was already gone, already moving on to his next big thing. There was never another word spoken. Even though he still had all his shit at my place. He asked me to leave the door open on a day when I would be gone so he could get his stuff when I wasn't there.

That's how easily he left me behind. Poof. Done.

Gainesville became a ghost town of memories I couldn't escape from fast enough. It took me years to enjoy some of the places that were so strongly associated with him. Gainesville was now my city, but he was still lurking around every corner.

Over the years, I built my career from the ground up. I achieved things I'm proud of, but there was always that lingering ache, the question of what might have been if we'd stayed together.

He moved on, too, or so I heard. Casual relationships, a player leaving broken hearts in his wake, or so I've heard. It tracks, though. No commitment means you can blow through life, never letting anyone down.

He has the face and body for it. I guess if you're hot, you can be a player if that is your thing. I, for one, would love to punch him in that pretty little face of his.

A decade has passed, and I'm still surprisingly bitter. It's shocking, really, how that bitterness has clung to me, shadowing every relationship I've tried to start. Even now, I'm mistrustful and never put my whole self into relationships.

I should be over this by now. I should have moved on—I thought I had. But maybe some wounds are too deep to heal fully.

There's something else, too, something that I haven't let myself think about in years. The night he left, I said something I still think about. Something along the lines of "You will never be able to care about another person because your ego is too damn big, and it is sucking all of the oxygen out of the relationship." It was harsh, and insults aren't my personality, but I still feel that way today.

Of course, I don't know him anymore. Maybe he grew up and learned that he isn't the center of the universe.

It is unfair to pin our breaking up solely on him because we were both hellbent on pursuing our separate careers. But I felt like he had a choice more than I did. And more than anything, I was hurt and desperate. He left without another word, and I've carried guilt ever since—I shouldn't have shut him down like that.

We had separate friend groups, for the most part, so once we broke up, I didn't really get any updates. I never get on social media. It isn't my thing.

Now, talking to him is surreal. He was only in my room for a couple of minutes at most, but my mouth is dry, and my pulse is beating faster than it did when Dr. Hampton told me about needing surgery.

I have mixed emotions about seeing him, frustration being the strongest. How could he walk in here like nothing happened between us? Like he didn't shatter my heart and leave me to pick up the pieces on my own while he went on with his life? Like he never bothered to reach out over the years, find out how I was doing?

I wanted to tell him to get out, to never think of me or try to talk to me again, but I couldn't. I played nice, letting him see a calm exterior while inside, I was boiling. That's usually my MO: keep it in, grin, and bear it.

He looked at me with those eyes, the same eyes that once made me feel so loved, and my body betrayed me. My vajayjay did a jump, my breath hitched, and for a moment, I couldn't find words to speak. It makes me furious that he still has this effect on me, that my body can react contrary to what my brain is screaming.

I'm stuck in this damn bed, in this hospital, and I can't escape him. It's like some cruel joke the universe is playing on me.

He asked if it was okay to stop by tomorrow, and I couldn't bring myself to say no. We're both adults. He's trying to be friendly, trying to make amends, and I can suck it up.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This is just a blip, a temporary situation. I'll get through it, just like I got through everything else. But as I lie here, I feel the weight of the past pressing down on me, suffocating me in a way.

All of it—the injury, missing the party, surgery, and now Shep. It's more than I feel like I can handle right now, and I feel like I might lose my shit.

1:39 am

I hear three light taps on the door, and it slides open. It's like Grand Central Station around here.

In saunters Wentworth, III, looking every bit the successful, self-assured wealth manager. He's sporting a tailored tuxedo. It's a little ruffled after a night of partying, but intact nonetheless.

His hair is slicked back, and his smug grin is plastered on his face. It's almost comical how he carries himself like some kind of Hollywood celebrity, as if he is walking the red carpet and it is a normal time of night to pay someone a visit.

"Hey there, I say to him," trying to hide my disdain. "Fancy seeing you here." I may be desperate for some companionship in this lonely hospital room, but I'm suddenly confident that in no context does that mean him.

"Well, I decided that if my date couldn't be at the party, I should bring the party to her. The party is over, and just a handful of people are sitting around the patio. I had to sneak in after Nurse Rachet left her post."

It's a nice thought, I guess. But did he think two in the morning, or close to it, was a good time to make a hospital call? He should've stayed at Isabella's or called it a night. I didn't want to be with him at the party, and I don't want to be with him here.

"It's so nice of you to come. But Wentworth, it's so late. They have visiting hours for a reason, you know. I'm sure you would much rather be in bed if the party is over. Not in some stinky old hospital."

He pulls up a chair beside my bed, settling himself with exaggerated movements. I can practically feel the smugness radiating off him. It's that or the vodka. When he breathes entirely too close to my face, the stench is so thick it's literally making me drunk.

"Oh, I can sleep another time. It is more important to me to make sure you're okay. I'm so sorry about your fall," he slurs sincerely. "Suddenly, he feels a tiny bit more human. I didn't think he had empathy in him.

"Thank you. It was a stupid freak accident."

He puts his hand on my arm. I'm sure he means it to comfort me, but it has all my hackles raised. If he thinks this is some kind of hospital booty call, he has another thing coming.

"So, tell me all about this little mishap," he says, leaning closer, his eyes gleaming with a predatory curiosity. I retreat as far into my pillow as possible, feeling accosted and disgusted by his breath. "How did you manage to mangle your hand so spectacularly?"

I give him the abridged version of what happened. He seems moderately engaged, more so than when I told him what I do as a marine biologist.

"Sophie was telling me about it, and it just sounds so horrific. I'm sorry. I didn't even know that you had been hurt until after the party started, and I wondered where you were. I started asking around, thinking you had ghosted me."

I want to say I might have ghosted you, given the chance, but I never would have ghosted Izzy. "Well, that's good to hear. I'd rather no one even notice. Especially Isabella."

"Of course, she noticed. She's worried sick. After I found out, I found her to talk to her about it, and she's beside herself."

"Well, like I said, I was hoping no one would notice, especially her. So, I guess thanks for pointing that out," I say with sarcasm. Who says something like that? After just being told that I didn't want anyone to notice, least of all her?

"No, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that. Just letting you know that everyone's just so sick with worry that you will be okay."

I wish he would leave. He's so smug in his tux, the black bowtie undone and hanging around his neck like a limp noodle. I know he's trying to make me feel better, but all he is doing is making me feel worse.

"Is there anything I can get for you? I texted you before I came but didn't hear back, so I wasn't sure."

Yeah, if you text someone and they don't text back, especially after midnight, that usually means they don't want to talk to you.

"Oh, that's so nice of you, Wentworth. I didn't realize you had texted. I was settling in to go to sleep." Hint. Hint.

"No need to apologize. So, can I get you anything? I'm happy to run and get you a coffee. Or a snack. A magazine? Just let me know how I can make it better for you."

Do you really want to know, Wentworth? The way you can make it better for me is to turn around and walk right back out of the door. And maybe get yourself a coffee to sober yourself up.

"You're so kind to offer, Wentworth. I'm fine right now. I'm pretty tired, and I would be so much happier for you and everyone if you enjoyed the afterparty. I'm sure there are at least a few still going."

"I guess I was thinking you might want some company. I don't mind staying with you here, so you're not alone."

"Oh heavens no, please. I appreciate the offer. But I am going to be totally fine here alone tonight. It looks like I'm going to be having surgery early tomorrow, so hopefully, I can bust out of this place in the next day or so."

"Surgery? You have to have surgery?"

Oh God. Why did I open this can of worms? I don't want to go through all this with him.

I give him the abridged version. I'm sure he won't remember any of this tomorrow, anyway.

As he turns to walk out, I do feel a little guilty for being such a bitch. It's just that I'm done trying to be friendly and coddle someone if I know he's not The One.

Not only is he not The One, but he also pretty much annoys every nerve in my body. It's better to cut it off at the pass.

No sooner than he walks out, the nurse comes in to check my vitals. For fuck's sake, will I ever get any sleep in this place?

My breath catches in my throat when I realize it isn't the nurse after all. It's Shep, looking as handsome as ever in his blue scrubs, his hair slightly damp, his eyes holding an intensity that makes my heart pound.

"Elle," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. "I'm so sorry to come so late. I saw you were awake, so I wanted to tell you before I take off that I checked your surgery slot tomorrow, and you're in good hands."

He trails off, his face etched with what seems like insecurity. I've never seen him in any light except for an exuding overwhelming confidence. Maybe it's the late hour and awkward meeting.

"I walked up to tell you right after I left, but then I saw your boyfriend here. I'm sure he is worried sick. I was heading out when I saw him leave, so I figured I'd pop in to tell you."

His words sting, but I force a laugh. "Boyfriend?" I echo, shaking my head. "Wentworth, III? That was just a... No, no. He is not my boyfriend, not by a long stretch." I hear myself sounding like a jabbering idiot, but I can't stop. Why am I overcompensating about whether or not Wentworth is my boyfriend?

God, I hate myself.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Oh. Okay."

"Let's just say he isn't my type."

Whatever that means. Oh, my God, why did I say that? Shut the fuck up, Elle!

He offers a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. "Thank goodness," he says. "He seemed like a bit of a prick."

I can't help but laugh again. "He is," I agree. "A pompous, self-important prick."

"So, anyway, I'm going to let you get some rest. Thought letting you know that might allow you to rest easier."

"I appreciate it, Shep. Goodnight."

Well, that was strange and disarming. How can I hate a guy that is that handsome and thoughtful?