“What was her name?”
“Anna.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
His eyes were gentle, but not soft in a weak way. Gentle like hands that had learned how to hold something fragile without crushing it.
I tried to laugh and failed.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
“I can barely sit up.”
“I noticed.”
“My husband wants a divorce.”
“He sounds determined.”
“I have drains coming out of me.”
“Temporary problem.”
“I’m not marrying you.”
“I didn’t bring a priest.”
For the first time since waking, I laughed.
It hurt so badly that I gasped, and Mark immediately rose, alarmed.
“Don’t make me laugh,” I wheezed.
“I’ll try to be less charming.”
“That will help.”
He sat back down, and for a few seconds, we were just two damaged people in a hospital room, smiling at the absurdity of still being alive.
Then my phone buzzed.
Both of us looked at it.
It sat on the nightstand like a venomous insect.
I stared until the screen lit again.
Evan.
Not a text this time.
A call.
Mark’s face hardened.
