Page 39 of Intersect

I hear shouting down the hall less than a minute later, and then the door is thrown open. Jeff storms in, freezing at the sight of me sitting beside Quinn. “Why the fuck are you here?” he asks.

I rise. Nothing seems to matter anymore. Not my job, not what happens after this. Only that Quinn walks out of this hospital again. “For the same reason I’ve always been here with her when you’re not. Because I’m the only one of us she wants.”

He lunges. There’s a security button on the wall. I could have back-up here to deal with him in a matter of seconds. But my mind empties. This hatred toward him…it’s been in me since the first night we met. And I want to expel all of it, right here, while I’ve got the chance.

He flies into me with his hands on my throat and the two of us topple to the ground. Within seconds, though, my fist makes impact, and I sling him off me, with his back to the floor. I could stop now, but it isn’t enough. When he groans at the second hit and stops fighting back at the third, it is still not enough.

Security rushes through the door. I should have stopped two punches ago, but it’s not until they grab me that I finally allow reason to intervene.

“You okay, Dr. Reilly?” asks one of them. They’re still holding my arms but it’s the way your buddy does when he’s pulling you out of a fight.

I give him a stiff nod, breathing heavily more from anger than exertion as I rise.

The other security guard helps Jeff to his feet and starts pulling him away. “You’re dead, motherfucker,” Jeff says, turning back toward me when they reach the door. “I’m reporting you. You hear me? You’re going to lose your job.”

The words mean nothing to me. Maybe he’s right, but I’m already back in my seat, my fingers twining through Quinn’s, pleading with her to wake up.

* * *

“Hey.” The word is raspy and uncertain. My head, resting against her hand, jolts upright. She is heavy-lidded, but there’s a weak smile on her face.

I haven’t cried since my brother died but I have to swallow hard to keep it at bay right now. My jaw clenches as I try to get a grip on this illogical twining of grief and joy. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” she says. “You may need to get used to it.” Her hand reaches out, brushes my cheekbone. “Is that a bruise?”

It’s been hours since the fight with Jeff. I’d almost forgotten. “I had a little scuffle with your ex.”

Her eyes open wide and she tries to sit up, but I gently push her shoulder back to the mattress. “It’s fine. Believe me, he looks a lot worse than I do. How do you feel?”

“I feel great,” she says dismissively. “Are you okay? What happened with Jeff?”

I smile. It’s so like her to regain consciousness worried about me. “I told you it was fine. You’re the one who’s in a hospital bed. Let’s focus on you.”

She looks like she wants to argue but restrains it with a frown. “Did you already do an MRI?” she asks.

God, I wish she hadn’t asked. Even her best-case scenario at this point is a shitty one, and I know she’ll see that no matter what I tell her. I stare fixedly at the bed rail, gripping her hand tighter. “Your tumor has doubled in size.”

She nods, lips pressed tight, trying to hold it together. “And what does that mean?”

It means you could be dead in a week, in a day. It means the staff will be shocked you even woke up. God, I can’t tell her any of this. “It’s close to the point where it’s going to impact things—your memory, your gross motor function,” I reply. “I’m surprised it hasn’t already.”

I watch this sink in, and then her fingers tighten around mine. “That’s not how I want you to remember me,” she whispers, “so when it happens I want you to promise you’ll stay away. I’ll go to my mom’s when it gets to that point.”

I sigh. If she thinks I’d ever consider that, she doesn’t know me at all. “I am not fucking leaving you.”

“But—”

“Ask me a thousand times and the answer will still be no.”

“Such dedication,” she begins, brushing at her eyes, trying to make light of it. “It really must be true—” She stops herself, flushing at the conversation she’s opening up. A conversation she thinks would be ridiculous this early on. Except it isn’t ridiculous at all. I’ve been dying to say it for weeks.

“Love,” I reply, completing the sentence. My eyes hold hers. “Yeah. It is.”

18

QUINN

Nick stays with me for hours, feeding me water through a straw like I’m an invalid. “I can hold my own cup,” I scold. “Or do all your patients get this level of service?”