Page 267 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

IVY

hurry, I don't have much time left

I exhale through my nose. It comes out shaky.

My eyes slide back up to Wade.

He's watching me, still pressed into the pillow. His face is completely white and there's sweat wetting the collar of his hospital gown. His free hand is clawing for the call button but his fingers are shaking too badly to find it.

He saw it. The whole thing. The moment I left and the moment I came back and every terrible second in between.

He knows exactly how close that was.

I pocket my phone.

I could sign something, or write something else on his whiteboard or draw another picture. Or pull my mask down and give him one more thing to see when he closes his eyes at night.

But Ivy's waiting for me in the cafeteria.

And he's not worth another second away from her.

I swipe my forearm across the whiteboard to clear the evidence and walk to the door.

"Fine."

Wade's voice is strained now.

I stop but don't turn around.

"Keep her." He swallows so hard he makes a choking sound. "I don't… I don't want her anymore. Not after this. Not after she made a fucking spectacle of herself. Going on TV and crying about—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat viciously. "She was nothing when I found her. You understand that? Nothing. No money, no family other than her mom, no one who gave a shit. I made her. And this is—crawling into bed with a pack of⁠—"

He's rambling. The words are falling out of him faster than he can organize them, and underneath the venom I can hear the terror.

Not even just of me.

Of the fact that he has lost control of this situation so completely that he is lying in a hospital bed bargaining with what almost killed him, and I won't even look at him.

"Tell her—" He swallows. "Tell her I don't want her back. Tell her I said that. I wouldn't take her if she⁠—"

I keep walking.

His voice follows me into the hallway, getting louder and more unraveled with every word because he's frantic that he's being ignored.

It's just noise.

Just noise from a small, pathetic man who will spend the rest of his life telling himself he chose whatever the rest of his life looks like.

Maria glances up from her station as I pass. She doesn't say anything. Just watches me go with a knowing look.

I give her a quick wave.

I push through the stairwell door and take the stairs down to the first floor. My jaw is on fire, the gaiter pressing against tissue that can't take the pressure anymore. Every step sends a jolt through the damaged nerves.

But I barely feel it.

The cafeteria corridor is louder than I expected. As I round the corner, I spot a cluster of patients and visitors heading the same direction. Some in wheelchairs, a few on crutches, several in hospital gowns with IV poles rolling alongside them.

A woman on crutches spots me and stops.