Page 171 of Wrong Marriage. Right Groom
Rafael’s voice cut through the room with quiet authority.
“Everyone,” he said again, calm but unmistakably commanding. “Leave the room. Now.”
No one argued.
No one dared.
I heard immediate movement around me—the scrape of chairs, the soft shuffle of shoes against the floor, the rustle of clothing.
A door opened. Then another.
Within seconds, the room began to empty.
One by one, the sounds faded until only silence remained.
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, the room felt smaller.
There were no doctors now.
No nurses. No witnesses.
Only Rafael and me.
I could tell he was still somewhere beside the bed.
Not speaking. Not moving.
As though he didn’t know where to begin.
Finally, he spoke.
“You had hypothermia. The doctors spent seventy-two hours trying to stabilize you. They weren’t sure you would wake up.”
A pause.
“You nearly died, Loretta.”
I turned my face toward the sound.
Not because I could see him.
Because I wanted him to know I was listening.
“And whose fault was that?”
“Mine.” The answer came quietly. “But not entirely. You pushed where you shouldn’t have.”
His voice hardened slightly.
“You kept making assumptions about things you know nothing about.”
“Assumptions?” I repeated.
“Yes.”
For the first time, some of the remorse disappeared from his tone.
