Page 127 of His Wounded Heart

“She’s in the bedroom beside the one where Evie and Aiden are sleeping. Slayer’s in there with her.”

“Of course, he is. And the gerbil?”

“Mrs. Stapleton came and took the gerbil. Apparently, another lucky parent has to walk the tightrope of keeping Gerry the Gerbil alive.” I can hear the smile in Simon’s voice. “Do you feel good enough to sit up and really drink a glass of water?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve never felt this good so fast after a headache.”

“Migraine,” Simon says.

“No, it’s only a headache,” I protest.

“Trenda, I saw you. You were in severe pain. The doctor diagnosed it; it was—is—a migraine.”

“It was a headache,” I stress.

“Why are you so against having migraines?” he asks softly.

“Because I’ve read up on them, they’re debilitating. You’re out of control. You can’t do anything. I need to be in control and be able to take care of Bella. I can’t have migraines. Did you know sometimes they come monthly for people? My headaches don’t come monthly. They happen occasionally.”

“How often?” he asks.

“Maybe every other month.”

“The shot the doctor gave you is specifically for migraines. Why did it help your supposed headache?”

I feel like I’m going to cry. My eyes have been open for a while. I look at Simon. “What if they are migraines? How am I going to cope with Bella?”

“You’re going to cope how you always do. With help.”

“I guess I will.” I stir. “I want to get up now. I need a shower.”

He helps me to the bathroom.

“Honey, I’m going to close the door almost all the way shut, then I’m going to turn the light on here in the bedroom so you have a little light in there, but not too much, okay?”

“Okay,” I say softly.

I watch as he closes the door, then I take off my clothes and get into the shower. It would be so nice if he would be here all the time to take care of Bella and me.

Stop with your wishful thinking.

Chapter Thirty-Two

She seems sad. I don’t like that. And I really don’t think it was because of the migraine. I go downstairs to bring up a tray for her.

There’s some of the grilled chicken breasts that Mora had brought for Bernie to eat. There wasn’t any potato salad, but there was still macaroni salad, and there was still some of the homemade red velvet cake that Trenda made yesterday.

By the time I get up there, Trenda’s in her bathrobe, sitting on the side of the bed in the dark, finishing the glass of water.

“You okay?” I ask as I put the tray of food on the bed.

“Sure. Why do you ask?”

“You seemed sad. You’re still not over your headache, are you?”

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I head for it.

“I’m fine now that there’s food.” She gives me a half smile. “Don’t worry about me. Midnight calls are never good.”