Page 307 of Ricardo

“Dante,” she whispers.

He tries to smile, but it's just a ghost of one.

“Hey, Jules,” he rasps. Then his eyes flutter shut, and he's gone again.

Chapter Forty One

Julia

Dante is finally out of the ICU.

The room he is in now has actual walls, which feels like a luxury I did not know how to appreciate until I spent a week watching nurses, doctors, orderlies, families, and strangers pass in front of glass while Dante lay still in a bed.

It's a private room, of course. Ricardo would have it no other way. But more importantly, it has a door that we can actually close and solid walls no one can see through.

It has a window, a small couch, and a chair that is still uncomfortable but better than the ones downstairs, although Dante still complains about it.

Which is how I know he is improving.

He is propped up against his pillows, still pale, still moving carefully, still attached to an IV pole and a few monitors, but the oxygen tube is gone. His voice is scratchy, and his eyes get heavy sometimes in the middle of a sentence. The effects of the pain medication irritate him in a way that would be funny if the reason for it were not so terrifying.

But he is awake and lucid.

He is Dante again.

Mostly.

Right now, he is staring at my stomach.

Again.

I lower my magazine.

“Do you need something?”

His eyes lift to my face with absolutely no shame. “No.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m observing.”

“There's nothing to observe yet.”

“I know better.” He looks at my stomach again.

I roll the magazine and tap his blanket-covered leg lightly, far from any place that might hurt him.

“Stop being weird.”

“I’m not being weird. You’re pregnant.”

“I am aware.”

“With my sibling.”

“Yes, Dante. We’ve covered this already.”

“And that’s not weird to you?” he asks skeptically.