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“So…no hair,” he murmurs.
“No hair and a lovely boner.”
There’s nothing we can do but laugh.
“I UNDERSTAND SHE’S IN RECOVERY.” I puff my breath out, wrap my hand around my iPhone. “What I’m asking is if you can have Arethea call me. Right away.”
The nurse in outpatient surgery makes a growl-like sound. “I don’t know this woman, Arethea,” she snaps. “She may work at this hospital but she doesn’t work in our department. I told you everything I can. Our system shows that Autumn Whatley is no longer in surgery, but is now in recovery. That’s more than I should tell you, Mr. Whatley. You could be anybody. Especially since Mrs. Whatley did not check the ‘married’ box on any of her intake forms.”
“We were separated. Back together now. It’s not my fault you don’t have current information.”
“Congratulations, Mr. Whatley. Can I help you in any other way?”
I hang up the phone and walk from the window to the dresser. It’s true, I swore I wouldn’t leave the room, but Arethea swore she would fucking call me. If Cleo’s been in recovery for more than an hour, something’s wrong. I’m going down to find out what it is.
I have to hold onto the arm of a chair to get out of my black longue pants and into a pair of jeans that Cleo bought me. I don’t have time for underwear.
Even though I know I’ve lost some weight, I’m shocked by how easily I can wear the smaller size. When I button them, I’ve got about an inch of slack. Well, fuck. That’s why I brought a belt, I guess.
Threading the belt through the loops is fucking hard as shit with my hands shaking like this. Drives me fucking crazy. Everything is so damn slow. And it’s so cold in here. What the fuck is that thermostat set on? I pull on a button-up—in case I get stupid and decide to make the trip down to outpatient surgery with just a mask and not the full biohazard shit. I hold my breath as I button it. This is the real test of whether the weights I’ve got hidden under the desk have helped me retain any muscle mass.
It’s not snug, like it was. But it’s not that loose.
I hope tomorrow I can lift aga
in. Maybe ride the stationary bike, or fuck Cleo from on top. Other than hugging porcelain right after Arethea came with a wheel chair for Cleo, this detox hasn’t been so bad. I feel like shit, of course, but that’s to be expected. Feeling lousy, jacking off all day.
The feeling shitty isn’t new for me. I haven’t felt great since January at least. I’m actually better now that all the blasts have been killed off by the preparative regime.
My heart pounds as I think about the next few weeks. If I remember right from last time, that’s when things get really shitty. I hate it when my counts are this low. Always tired. All the fucking rashes and other stupid problems that go along with having no immune system.
I finish buttoning the shirt and look over in the corner where my shoes are. The door opens and I whip around, so fast I almost lose my balance. I see the front end of a bed wheeled in, and glee and anxiety hit me all at once.
I feel a deep trough of grief from out of fucking nowhere, that she had to go through this without me. Someone numbed her lower body and dug around her bones, and it wasn’t my hands she was squeezing. I had Arethea give her a letter to read while they prepped her, but that’s nothing. I should have been there. My presence at the surgery is one of many things I can’t give her. I’m such a selfish shit for what I’m doing.
Arethea smiles as she wheels the bed through my door. I stalk over, finding Cleo on her side, facing away from me. She’s covered with these horrible white blankets that must be made in some third-world dungeon. I can see her hands clasped loosely out in front of her.
I’m too afraid to walk around the bed and see her from the front, so I flick my eyes to Arethea’s brown ones. “Why is she on a bed?” I snap. “Is that a hep lock?” I ask, nodding at the IV in her hand. “I thought she would be discharged. What went wrong?” My heart pounds desperately as I walk around the bed and—Cleo’s smiling.
“Hey you,” she whispers.
My chest flares with heat. The room tilts. My cock throbs. Fucking withdrawal.
Arethea starts rolling the bed again, over toward a corner of the room where a guest cot could go.
“Not there,” I snap. She turns. I wave at my bed. “I don’t want her in that crappy cot at all. It looks like shit. It’s a fucking slab of metal with a lumpy mattress and four wheels. Put her in my bed.”
Arethea smirks at me, and the smirk turns into a smile. “I see mama bear,” she teases.
Cleo’s eyes are on me. “I want to stay here for right now. It’s okay. Just come and see me. I want to hold your hand.”
I feel like an ass for not being by her side already, but I want this right. I move my bed over, so Arethea has room for Cleo’s cot between my bed and the wall, so if we’re both lying down, she’s facing me.
I realize I can’t see her now unless I’m on my bed. I sigh, then run my hands over her hair. I lean over and kiss her forehead.
I give her the pink fleece blankets that I used to wrap the brick that time, and then her pillow from the Tri Gam house, and then a small, stuff sloth that makes her grin.
“I love him. And you.”
