Chapter Thirty-Three

Zoe

T he hospital doesn't reek of antiseptic today.

Well, it does, in all likeliness—but I can't be sure.

Because Miles is here. And as soon as I see him with his disheveled hair that falls across his forehead and deepens the dark shadows under his lashes and his day-old clothes that cling wrinkled around his muscles, my nose finds traces of sunshine in the atmosphere and a current of fresh air hugs my skin.

He's still here.

He didn't leave.

He didn't abandon me.

Deep down, I've always known it. Under my fears and the whispers from my past, part of me has always trusted with blind belief that Miles would stay. Now I see it, too, and it fills me with such a throat-clogging wave of emotions that I want to run and launch myself into his arms.

The only reason my steps remain even is the small detail of our setting. A hospital with a dozen other people around.

I frown.

Why is he seated in a crowded waiting room with half of the prying eyes on him—the other half wondering why?

He raises his bent head slowly as I approach, as though he's recognized me by the tempo of my step or the muffled clatter of my sneakers.

I stop right in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

For a long moment, his eyes flash as they scan every centimeter of my face, lingering on my small scar. Only then does he answer with a gravelly rasp, as though that's what sealed reality: in his imagination, there's no space for mars on my skin. "Only family can visit."

Under my hands that cradle his cheeks, Miles shudders—and again when I whisper with reverence, "You're his family, too."

Then he unfolds his fists from where they dangled in his lap. He takes hold of my hand, his stride demanding I jog to keep up.

But I don't care, because all I see is his hand on mine.

"What happened to your hand?" I half breathe, half gasp.

With his back to me, the span of his wide shoulders under a dark sweatshirt occupies my entire sight. I can't read his face, but the way his breathing sharpens tells me enough.

"Blackstein." I dig my nails precisely into his angry hand, my question morphing into a demand when an answer doesn't come. "What happened to your hand?"

Veering right, he pushes a heavy door with such force the hinges complain. Once we're both on the other side, he lets it fall closed with its own weight.

I look around. "Stairwell?"

"People are too lazy to use the stairs." He drops my hand. "It was either this or stealing an elevator. And I didn't want to be responsible for someone's death by occupying an elevator that might be needed for some emergency. "

Without turning from me, as if he wants to make sure I won't try to leave while he's distracted, Miles walks backwards until his back hits the opposite wall in front of the stairs that descend from above.

"I might be responsible for someone's death if you don't answer the question." The longer he doesn't reply, the more my temper flares and smothers the concern. "You. I might throw you down these stairs. Your hand?"

As soon as I mention his limb for the thousandth time, his fists flex violently before he hides them in his armpits as his arms fold. "I had an itch, and so I scratched it."

"What the hell does that mean?" I frown, frustrated and fed up, which reminds me I'm mad at him. "Where the hell have you been? I searched half of the city for you."

All day, I've been going mad running in circles all over the city, my mind spinning with worry as the hours passed without a trace of him.

Finally, my words seem to permeate through his haze.

" I searched the entire city for you ."

His chest heaves, though I don't think it was from exertion.

It's from taking the very first full breath in a long time, his lungs expanding after wilting and withering.

"I went to your old apartment." He pulls at one bruised finger, though it doesn't seem to bother him, hard enough that it pales in comparison to the others. Then another. "I went to your work. I was at the police station, so—"

"You went to my work?"

"Yeah."

"You went to my work today ?"

"Yes."

"Miles, why would you do that? That's insane. Walking inside a building full of hungry journalists amidst a scandal. Why would you walk straight into that hell?"

He shrugs.

Because walking straight into hell for me is perfectly reasonable for him.

He would.

He had.

Velvety wings spread in my stomach, a little butterfly awakening after winter.

"I needed to find you," he finally says to my speechlessness. "And yo—"

But once again, I don't let him finish because I'm not finished. "You went to the police station?"

"Yeah." He crosses his exposed forearms again, corded with thick veins that pulsed with every beat of his heart and every bulge of his muscles—and one of my stolen scrunchies.

"Shit," I breathe out. "I'm surprised there isn't a missing person report with my name on it."

"Apparently, a period of twenty-four hours is required before you can file one," Miles informs me matter-of-factly.

My eyes jump out of their sockets. It shouldn't surprise me that he would actually reach the authorities. In the chaos, outward and inward, I didn't consider the fact that a gun with my name on it is still out there—and my radio silence would have worried him for more reasons than one.

"Then, I got a call from the hospital because they also couldn't reach you either. I wasn't sure if I should have been worried or relieved," he continues. Each word comes through painfully gritted teeth, as though he's reliving his day as he relays it for my knowledge. "After I searched all the places I could think of, I came here and waited and fucking prayed. "

"Don't be dramatic." His words reduce my voice to its rasp. "You're not religious."

"Turns out there's one thing that can convert me."

My heart stutters as Miles multiplies the butterflies in the confines of my chest.

And I have to tell him. I can't stand here with so many things unsaid anymore.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left like that," I voice all the things, feelings and words, lodged in my throat. "I should have stayed and kicked everyone out so we could talk. But I wasn't in a nice place mentally when I got home—I was upset and worried and… fucking terrified."

One step forward, he reaches for me.

I step back, away from his reach.

After a long day of deprivation, my body is starved for his touch—but I can't give in. I can't melt into him until there is this solid thing between us.

He freezes and frowns at my rejection, nostrils flaring and eyes flashing and arms hanging midair with the ghost of my touch.

I forge ahead. "And when I overheard you… When you didn't believe me, when I thought you didn't trust me, I—It felt like…"

Struggling to find the words that can cohesively convey thoughts that have nothing to do with reason or logic,I can only shake my head back and forth, back and forth.

"I know it wasn't you. I never thought so, Zoe." He shoves his fists inside the pockets of his sweatpants, head mirroring mine. "I considered the possibility for half a second. That's exactly how long it took me to decide it was ridiculous."

A rogue strand falls from my ponytail as I duck my chin .

"I know. I know, Miles. I just—I was so afraid you would leave that I ran away instead." I chuckle, all self-deprecation. "I spent the night in my head coming to the groundbreaking conclusion that acknowledging my struggles is only the first step towards healing. That just because I convinced myself I was healed once I accepted my trauma, it doesn't mean I'm miraculously done healing."

Tucking the hair behind my ear, I raise my chin and attempt a smile.

"But I'm trying. This is me trying. I hope it's enough."

I hope I'm enough.

I don't say it, but he hears it all the same.

And he understands. He understands deeper than my words, all the things I say and all the things I don't—can't.

Miles just gets me .

"Enough?" He shakes his head violently, like my words both enrage and sadden him. "Zoe you could never be just enough. You're everything. Every-fucking-thing." Each word is thoroughly enunciated. "And I will fucking fight anyone who tries to convince you otherwise—even if it's this dark mind of yours."

This time, he doesn't give me a chance to retreat—not that I could, even if I wanted to. He prowls forward, invading my space and all my senses all at once.

"Don't ever run away from me again, Zoe." He's so close his chest punches against mine with every breath. "Please."

I don't hesitate. "Okay. But if I do, you will chase me, and you will catch me. Promise?" In the barely there space between us, I hold my pinkie for him like he always does when it comes to promises.

"Always. "

He hooks his pinkie-finger on mine without looking away from my face and tugs me impossibly closer to him.

"Fuck, Zoe." Our foreheads mash together. "I'm so mad at you."

"Okay." I prop myself on my tiptoes, winding my arms around his middle. "I suggest you try multitasking. Stay mad while you kiss me."

His hand wraps around my ponytail and he pulls roughly, tilting my eyes to his. "Uh-huh."

"What?"

"You need to see Toby."

Much to my dismay, Miles is right.

As much as I'd tried to pretend everything was fine these past hours and focus on the things within my power—rather than obsessing over things I can't control—the truth is, Grandpa is fighting for his life. And he needs me as much as I need to be with him.

"I feel obligated to tell you how much I resent your soundness of mind at this moment." I sigh. "Just a little one?"

After a few long seconds in which only his eyes move, bouncing between mine, he pulls the strings of my—his—hoodie and presses his lips on mine.

Together we inhale deeply, bathing in the peace and certainty that our forever will be made of moments like these—of love and choice and fight.

A last, soft kiss on my temple before he winds his arm around my shoulder, and we retrace our steps through the creaky door.

"Don't think you won't tell me every little detail about that ugly hand," I warn, entwining mine in his.

"Yes, love. "

"Don't love me."

Miles throws me a dimpled smile. "Yes, love."

I squeeze his purple fingers and he whimpers.

"Yes, lov—Zoe!"

With every step that shortens the distance, my heartbeat accelerates, afraid of what I'll find in that hospital room.

I find nothing that I could have anticipated.

With a surgical mask and all the years gone by, I almost don't recognize him. As a matter of fact, I don't—not until he says softly, "Hi, little bee."

The voice sounds uncannily it like always did, but it doesn't register as much as the endearment.

"What are you doing here?"

My vocal cords tie into messy knots with all the years' worth of things unspoken, my voice strangled as surprise blends with disbelief, denial with blatant refusal.

"Zoe," my father whispers my name, but it doesn't sound like it's dusty from months without use.

"What are you doing here?"

Sitting in his tweed pants and matching vest, staring with glossy blue eyes. Like he'd never left.

My temples throb with the day-old headache that worsens at his sight. I consider rubbing them to soothe it but my fingers are curled inside my palms.

"Your Grandpa is—He might—" He's unable to even mutter the words, as though they hurt him when I know for a fact he doesn't care.

Not enough.

"Hasn't mattered before."

Before the words are out, something flashes in my memory—and my narrowed eyes widen with realization .

The shadow.

The flowers.

"It was you?"

He swallows thickly, his lack of response confirming my conclusion.

"It was you," I repeat disbelievingly.

Months ago, when it was me in that bed in this building.

Convinced the flowers were from Miles, I'd never considered anyone else. Who else could it be, if not my boyfriend?

Someone else, apparently.

My father.

Just like the shadow in the hospital that I attributed to a courtesy of my demons haunting me all night in the corridor window.

I don't know what to do with that knowledge.

My priority lies somewhere else, right now—a hospital bed.

"You have to go. Now. You shouldn't be the first person he sees when he wakes up. Wouldn't want him to have another heart attack."

Although he winces at my harshness, he nods, too.

I'm reeling. I will be, for a long time. So many things played a part in who I am today, good and bad, and I don't know half of them.

How can I ever understand myself if I'm oblivious to what made me?

"I'm sorry I didn't—When you—" His voice cracks. He pauses to gather it. "I was so afraid I'd lose you. Then I realized I already had—and I don't know how to get you back."

I have no use for his apologies, so I open my mouth to quiet his .

Like he can read my mind, he rushes to speak first. "You're my daughter. I love you more than anything. I went away because I wanted to give you a normal, safe life. I couldn't stand the thought of losing anyone else, so I told myself I had to go to protect you." He runs a hand across the years on his face. "But I think it was me I was protecting. In the end, I lost my family anyway."

His decisions weigh on his shoulders and he seems smaller—and smaller still—by the second, with every sentence.

After months and years on end without seeing his face, I can't stand more than a few moments. I have to turn away. I walk to the window.

"Death isn't the only thing that takes people away. Sometimes it's our own actions—our fears."

I pinch my eyes closed, not wanting to hear anything else. I don't want to hear how much I'm the daughter of my father. I'm not ready to forgive him. Not yet. I'm not sure I'll ever be.

So I focus my last shred of energy on being my mother's daughter, speaking in a voice that doesn't shake. "Please, step out of the room. When your father awakes, if he wishes to see you, you'll be informed."

The beep of the monitor punctuates the silence. In the window glass, his frozen reflection stares at me.

"I know the distance is big—and I created it. But I want to build a bridge."

Is that even possible?

Through the last few weeks, I watched Miles rebuild his own relationship with his dad. Between them, though,the Atlantic didn't stand.

"You can't create a bridge over an ocean, Father."