Chapter Thirty

Zoe

T he final days of summer came and went fast—too fast. Outside, green fades into the warmest colors of a sunset, the trees giving signs of undressing under the autumn wind. Fuzzy socks and fluffy blankets are welcome; a faithful cup of coffee followed by the pastries that replace the summer frozen yogurt.

But it feels like winter as I hurry inside the white walls and under the sharp, cold lights of the hospital.

Claustrophobia isn't on my list of fears, but inside this specific steel box, the mirrors close in on me with full speed. My internal temperature rises with the elevator, and by the time the ding startles the reflection that stares at me, there's a fine sheen of sweat clinging to me like a second skin.

My rushed footsteps grow heavier as the reception of the surgery department comes into view.

"Hello. My name is Zoe Westwood. I received a call about my grandfather, Tobias Westwood. I was told he's undergoing surgery."

"Ms. Westwood." She looks up at me with practiced empathetic softness and the same voice that introduced herself with the hospital name followed by my grandfather's name on a phone call. "Please take a seat. Someone will be in to talk to you soon."

Thanking her for nothing, I let her go back to her work as the messenger of death. I refuse to sit, pacing in front of the windows—and her—instead.

The double swing door swishes for the eighth time, but I don't pay them regard until my name is called.

"Ms. Westwood?" Head to toe in medical gear, a stern woman awaits confirmation expectantly. "My name is Dr. Holt, and I am assisting with Mr. Westwood's procedure. He was admitted to the ER this afternoon, unconscious and unresponsive. We ran some tests and were able to diagnose a severe case of coronary artery disease that caused a severe myocardial infarction—a heart attack. His condition was critical, and he's been in surgery since."

The fine layer of perspiration frosts all around me as the blood leaves my face.

Coronary artery disease.

Severe myocardial infarction.

As far as I know, the terms aren't direct synonyms for certain death , but that's exactly what they sound like in her carefully neutral voice. As though this is a good time to start mourning.

"His prognosis is reserved, but we're doing everything in our power for him. As far as I understand, you're his proxy, so please stick around in case you might be needed to make any decisions."

Decisions. What decisions? I want to scream at the doctor, tell her to stop speaking in riddles and medical jargon and just give me answers, but a knot tangles in my throat, clinging with determination no matter how many times I swallow.

"Thank you," I manage instead.

She departs with a nod, leaving me to watch the blue of her surgical gown cut through the overwhelming white and disappear when the doors swing behind her.

For a moment, I'm surrounded by nothing, lost in a colorless life with no indication of north or south or the way out.

Unsure of what now, and what next.

I've always prided myself in never having needed anyone, yet all I want now is someone to just tell me what to do. I need someone.

Not someone.

I need him .

Miles.

I rummage through my purse for my phone, but the only contents in there are my keys and documents. I pat my back pockets and discover these pants don't have any. Before I can glare at the sky and scream ‘Why, God? Why?' , I realize the device is clasped between my chin and my chest.

Chastising myself mentally, I snatch it, but it slides from my slick palm straight to the floor. I watch it tumble and land, but the clatter doesn't register until I drop to my haunches and the sight of tiny shards of glass awakens my tear ducts.

It's broken. It's a million jagged pieces, all together and broken .

Counting to six, I instruct myself to breathe in through my nose. Counting again, I breathe out. I count, again and again, until I'm sure my vision will be clear when I open my eyes.

I'll find a way to call him, as soon as possible.

On the other hand, talking to the messenger of death is the last thing I need right this second, but I have enough presence of mind to provide other contacts temporarily since mine is currently off-service.

Then I succumb and make camp in the stiff chairs.

For hours, I oscillate between floating away from myself to escape this nightmare, and dragging myself back to feel every second of the bite of my nails on my palms. Because that's the least this man deserves after I failed him so thoroughly.

All the glaring signs that I efficiently ignored in order to go on with my blissful little life. I'd launched myself into it for him, only for it to become his downfall. The constant fatigue disregarded as old age, the sudden coughing fits attributed to choking on fucking saliva, the shortness of breath after a small laugh…

I should have noticed. I should have insisted.

My eyes sting in complaint. I stare, unblinking, at the floor for too long, but I refuse any reprieve.

The throbbing in my head worsens with every passing second, but my stubborn brain refuses to calm, launching into another round of what-ifs and what-thens.

What if he doesn't make it out of the surgery?

What if he survives but he isn't himself? What if his body no longer answers to his mind, what if his mind doesn't belong to him anymore? All the predicaments that always scared him more than death.

To me, though, nothing is scarier than the idea of not hearing the unconditional love in his accent again or feeling my body enveloped in the cinnamon scent of his hug.

Like a little girl, alone. Because he isn't here, now, to promise me he always will be.

Sharper than spears, my elbows dig into my thighs. I relish the prickles of pain. Too soon, they fade into nothing, and numbness takes place with the hours spent in the white unupholstered chair until everything has numbed.

Unable to stay upright any longer, my head drops between my hunched shoulders as I shove my shaking fingers into my messy curls until my nails find scalp. I claw deeper, then, and harder still—clinging to the sting on my skull to keep me tethered to this nightmare of a reality.

But it's real. It's as real as the lingering sunshine and fresh air in my oversized hoodie, a sensory promise that Miles is always with me.

In my rush, the last thing on my mind was changing. I'd grabbed the first pair of pants I'd spotted and buttoned it under one of Miles's sweatshirts.

As if I'd conjured it, his name gives my senses a reprieve.

My absent ears strain to hear the enthusiastic voices on the TV. Even though I can't make out their words, the breaking news is unmistakable to my blurry eyes.

The secret is out.

The scandal has exploded.

And Miles's career is headed for the grave.

Miles. No longer the golden son, now Judas Iscariot.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Restlessness chases away the numbness, the linen of my pants rustling against the chair as my knee bounces up and down, up and down. I don't bother trying to stop it. The effort seems as draining as it is pointless.

This wasn't supposed to happen. It was never supposed to come out like this. Like some seedy negotiation done under the wraps. In the way it is framed, it's potentially career-killing.

We had a plan. Together, we built a plan to announce the controversial transfer in a way that would lessen the harm to all the parties involved—it would be part two of his short-story—as soon as the season ended.

And now… now, my Grandpa could lose his life. My boyfriend could lose his career. I have lost all rationality when I need it most.

I know, in the grand scheme of things, life trumps career and soccer— football— is only the most important of life's least important things.

But there's nothing I can do here. The surgery will continue for hours before it ends—even then, I wouldn't be allowed to see him so soon.

I have time to go to Miles, then come back as soon as I can hug my grandfather. Hopefully.

And I need to check on Miles. His situation is one I can help. I have contacts in the press world, favors to collect. Maybe I can trace whoever leaked the story. Maybe I can help with damage control. Even if I can't do anything to make this all go away, I can be there for him.

But how can I make that choice?

How can I choose between the two most important men in my life?

I force oxygen into my lungs and my veins, willing my mind to clear and the pulse in my neck to stop speeding.

There's no time to fall apart. I can do that later, when this is over—however that may be.

It's in chaos that reason and logic are needed most. That has always been my strong suit.

I get up from the chair and make my way to the car on wobbly legs.

My blurry eyes blink when the ornate iron spears cut my way, tall, vertical and perfectly parallel. And blinding, under the headlights.

With a slow press of the break, I'm troubled to realize it's our community gate. Nothing from the forty-minute drive from the hospital registered except the urgency to come home. It's like I sat on the leather seat and blinked one long, long blink, and the next thing I know, I'm home. My mind, far away, disconnected from my body—scattered between a hospital room and my boyfriend.

Always polite, I wave at the security officer on duty, and navigate the calm closed streets. I decide to park the Jeep in the driveway in case I need to hurry to the hospital again.

I can't find the keys for the front door, so I head to the garage entrance. As soon as I open the door that connects to the house, strange voices reach me, harshly clearing my mental fog.

"Did you tell her? Did she know?"

"She's my girlfriend. Of course she knows." It's Mile's voice, but I've never heard it like this.

Furious. He's furious. That's when I realize I have never seen him mad before.

Frustrated, yes. Cantankerous, definitely. But never mad.

I frown, then wince as it worsens my headache.

Is he mad at me?

"She's a goddamned journalist! How could you tell her something like this?" I recognize the voice. Charlie Cox, the manager. Is he… Is he accusing me of outing Miles? Of possibly ruining his career, his reputation?

"She is my girlfriend ." Every word is spoken clearly, enunciated with purpose and punctuated with finality.

I'm the subject of the conversation. But I can't understand the words they're saying.

I stare at the wall. It's only white paint, completely blank in the dim hallway.

"She's not home. She's not answering your calls or texts, only radio silence. What more proof do you need?" Charlie's accusations grow bolder with the lack of objection. "Of course, it was her. Who else would leak this?"

Silence.

One, two, three, four seconds of silence.

My heart thunders in my ears against the tangent void of response.

They think I exposed Miles's secret. They think I told the press about Miles's controversial, impending transfer to the rival team.

But does Miles believe that, too?

Does he think I stabbed him in the back? Does he truly believe I would betray him?

Before the past few months, it would have been a fair assumption. Before all these weeks, I would have been my own main suspect.

But that was before us . Before everything we lived, shared, promised, dreamed.

Even then, I dad sworn secrecy. It's true, I had threatened him, but all of those were empty threats. Every time, he disregarded them with a blink, and I was sure he knew they were all false, all attempts to mess with him.

A pulsing chill crawls up my spine, clinging heavily to every slope and every indentation of my body with every second the silence stretches.

Say something. Please say something, Miles.

But he doesn't. His silence says all the things he won't voice.

My heart pounds violently in my ears, trying to drown the silence and all its meanings, only to worsen the throbbing in my head. The pain metastasizes, eating away at all my softest parts.

He blames me.

Oxygen stumbles in my airways, and my breath hiccups loudly. I slap a hand over my mouth to cover it.

Too late.

My heart slams into my already bruised chest, crawls to my crowded throat, wanting to leave my body to bleed out at his feet, beg for his trust and forgiveness and love.

The chill consumes me, threatening to transform my skin to stone and trap my bones inside—a statue to adorn my unlit hallway.

But is it my hallway?

My castles are built of sand, and the tide has risen at last, with the force of the full moon.

I move one foot.

I take one step.

Then, I run.