Page 261 of Ricardo

Dante made it through surgery.

I repeat it.

Dante made it through surgery.

It does not erase the image of him unconscious in the hospital bed, but it gives me enough strength to stand.

I rinse my mouth at the sink, then brush my teeth with the toothbrush that I've been using the past few weeks. My reflection looks strange. Pale. Hollow-eyed. Hair tangled from sleep and damp at the temples. I am wearing one of Ricardo’s shirts because I could not bear the idea of anything tight on my skin last night. The sleeves fall past my wrists. The hem reaches the middle of my thighs.

The sight of it makes my throat tighten.

I walk back into the bedroom and look at the bed.

One side of it is still turned down, pillow creased from the weight of Ricardo’s head. There is a faint indentation in the mattress beside where I slept. Close enough that if I had reached out in the night, I would have found him.

But he is gone now.

I hear a soft knock.

The door opens a few inches.

Victoria steps in, balancing a tray in both hands. She is dressed in simple clothes now, dark leggings and a soft sweater, her hair pulled back from her face. She still looks tired. Everyone does. But there is a life in her that makes the room feel less empty the second she enters it.

“Oh,” she says when she sees me standing there. “You’re awake.”

“I think so.”

Her eyes move over my face. “You were sick.”

I start to deny it.

There is no point.

“A little.”

Victoria sets the tray on the small table near the window. “A little?”

I wrap my arms around myself and nod.

Her expression softens, but she does not fuss. I appreciate that more than I can say.

“I brought breakfast,” she says. “Toast, eggs, fruit, tea. I thought we'd keep it simple this morning. There’s also a change of clothes.”

She nods toward the armchair, where folded clothes rest in a neat stack.

I look at them. Black leggings. A cream sweater. Socks.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I know.”

She says it so simply that my eyes burn.

I look away.

Victoria crosses to the curtains and opens them halfway. Morning light spills into the room, gray and cold, revealing more of Ricardo’s bedroom. The dark wood furniture. The books stacked on one bedside table. His watch lying near a glass of water. The jacket he wore last night draped over the back of a chair, still marked faintly where I touched him with blood on my hands.

My stomach turns again, but not quite so violently this time.