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Minutes turn to hours, but as if we feel Quinn is awake, we both jump up and storm into the room. His face edges on ghostly pale, but his lips curve into a smile at us. I take the right side of his bed and Alex the left. I have a déjà vu from years ago. Not enough time has passed to witness such a scene again.
“Bria, shouldn’t you be enjoying your honeymoon? Who called you?” he questions, and Alex tilts his head to avoid his gaze. I bite my lower lip to hide my distress.
“What about you think of yourself for once? I’m where I want to be, beside you and Alex. We’ll find someone to fix this like you found someone for me. Everything will be all right.”
“Sweetie . . .” It’s the tone of his voice, the acceptance of his situation lacing his words, and I sob.
“No, you can’t give up, please don’t do this. I’m not ready.” He grips my hand, and I squeeze his.
“But you’ll never be. No one is ever ready. You’ll have each other.”
Alex and I exchange a look, admitting we have, if we’re lucky, maybe a few more days with him.
“Why do you do this to us? It’s not fair.”
“Bria, please.”
“You keep telling us goodbye . . . it’s not fair,” I mumble, and he sighs.
“Sweetie . . .”
I rush out of the room. I can’t control my hurt and my tears for him. Outside, I collide with a broad chest that offers me a modicum of comfort.
***
The presence of someone else appears in the corner of my eye. I lift my gaze from Damien’s chest to brown and warm eyes protected under thick glasses.
“I’m Dr. Russel. I have been treating Mr. Quinn these last months.”
“Then save him,” I beg.
“I’m deeply sorry I can’t do anything more.”
“How much time do we have with him?” I ask and fist Damien’s shirt.
“Hard to say.” At his answer, hope spikes up.
“So, there’s a chance?”
“I’m sorry,” he says before changing the subject. “I am here for you, actually. Your husband informed me of your heart condition. Could you come with me for a check, please?”
My hopes deflate as I trudge into a white and sterile room as the doctor checks my heart and my blood pressure.
“Mrs. du Sky, your blood pressure is too high, and the EKG is worrisome. I want to keep you under observation. Your heart is still recovering, and every stressful situation is bad for you.”
The doctor finishes consulting with me, and Damien sucks all the air in the room as he stiffens like a board.
“What do you suggest I do then, doctor, keep pretending my dad isn’t dying?”
My harsh words ignite some sympathy in him.
“I’m sorry for what’s happening, but your health is important too. Please take this sedative and medication. I’ll be back to check on you once they take effect.”
I want to disagree, but my dear husband, sensing my rebellion long before I’m even aware, answers for me.
“Yes, of course, whatever helps my wife.”
The doctor excuses himself, and I eye Damien, jaw set, determination written in the steel of his eyes.
