I imagine that smile that starts in her gorgeous eyes and ends in her gorgeous lips.
I imagine her staying.
Staying.
Staying.
None of it happens.
I close my eyes. Somewhere down the hall, nurses laugh. Outside a cart rattles past, and the woman pushing it hums three notes of a song I can’t place.
I breathe in, careful and slow. I breathe out.
I do not die of missing her.
I do not die of wanting to see her walk through the door.
I do not die of being the one who said we had no future and then wanting one anyway.
I do the thing the surgeon gave me back the chance to do.
I live.
And tomorrow, I go home.
Eleven
Tabitha
I wake before my alarm.
In the shower, I scrub my face and body until the last of yesterday, including the texts and talk with Marjorie, is gone. I exit the shower, towel off, and blow my hair dry. In the mirror, I pull my hair into a clean bun and tell my reflection the story I need for today.
You’re here because you worked for it. This is an opportunity you can’t pass up. No second thoughts, Tabitha. No second thoughts.
I glance at my phone.
Nothing from Marjorie.
Good. Bad. Both.
I shoulder my backpack and decide to walk to school today. Getting in my car could open a can of worms.
It would be too easy to start driving.
And not stop until I get to the Western Slope.
So I walk.
And I do not drive to Grand Junction.
Instead, I walk to campus, the streets still empty, the air already heating with the promise of August sun. I focus on the foothills, the scent of coffee in the air, on the ordinary. Anything to keep from picturing Henry lying in that hospital bed with his head bandaged and monitors beeping beside him.
Except it’s all crap.
He’s in my head.
Marjorie’s voice echoes in my head. I told Henry you sent your love. He smiled.
