Page 20 of Love What's Left
“Liar,” I croak.
He winks and slides the tumbler in front of me. “Your turn.”
It tastes like the extra-thick chocolate milk that comes in the paper cartons in the school cafeteria, but with the chalky addition of protein and the tang of vitamins. It’sdelicious.
I manage to drink a quarter of the tumbler and eat two bites of egg, then shake my head when my stomach protests the idea of more, even as my mouth wants me to keep going. “Full.”
He nods. “You did fantastic. Any requests for next time?”
“Umm. Pizza?”
“I’ll call Dr. Granthy. It may be a little soon. If it is, we’ll have pizza as soon as we get the green light.”
“Pepp-pepperoni and olives and . . .” My mouth sticks on the next word, though I know exactly what I want to say. I scowl in frustration. “I c-can’t say the thing.”
“Green peppers. That’s your usual order,” he says.
“You know what I like?” I don’t mean to speak the question aloud.
His voice turns rough. “Yeah.”
I shake my head. Why doesn’t he ever leave? When I was hospitalized as a kid, nobody sat beside my bed. I had an ear and sinus infection in tenth grade, and no one hovered over me, then, either. Even when I had a temperature of 104. Anytime I’ve ever been sick, they forgot about me until I finally emerged to rejoin the land of the living. I was always alone. Alone. Alone. Even in a group home.
People have their own lives and more important things to do. Not this man. He only ever goes for short periods of time when a nurse is here. “Don’t you have a job?”
His lips quirk. “You asked me the same thing the day we met. I own a property development company, and I’m responsible for a number of other family holdings, including a global shipping company and several tech companies.”
“You’re rich.”
“So are you.”
“That’s what someone who w-wanted to get me . . . on his side . . . would say.”
He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head.
“Shouldn’t you go back to work? Before your . . . empire . . . crumbles?” I demand, taking my time to form the words.
“I have people taking care of business. It’s more important to be here for you.”
What doeshe think I know or can do for him that’s more important than his big-shot companies? Either way, he’s not turning it back on me like I’m the one who needs him. “I don’t even know you. Why should I care . . . if you stay?”
9
Gabriel
Sydney's arms cross protectively in front of her torso, and she lifts her chin. “I’m your prisoner. Either way.”
For thirty-seven days, I slept only when my body forced me to and used every resource I had to track her down, followed every lead, called in every favor, threatened anyone who got in my way. Then for another twenty-four days, I never left her side for more than a few minutes at a time. She feels like smoke on a windy day, destined to drift away from me.
When she became aware of her surroundings, she began refusing my help with most things. I’ve tried to frame it as a good thing. Told myself it was her need for independence asserting itself. But it was never about “doing things herself.”
Sydney’s bones push against her skin as she sits, wild and fragile, in a bed we don’t share. She’s afraid. Of me.
The thought never ceases to pull all the air from my lungs.
“You’re free here. This is our vacation home.” I will her to understand.
“Then why do you . . . watch me . . . every m-minute?”
