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When I heard his voice, I almost couldn’t do it. He sounded so desperate yet so relieved, and I didn’t even have to say anything for him to know it was me. I let myself sit there for a few minutes, feeling connected to him in some way, and then I forced the words out of my mouth. The moment they were out, I slammed the payphone down before he could hear me break.
And fuck, did I break.
“Cam, I need you to trust me when I say that Ican’tstay,” I tell him with as much conviction as I can manage. “I wish more than anything that I could. I really do. But the reason I left in the first place is the same reason I have to leave again. Staying will only make things worse for him.”
He huffs, closing his eyes and raising his brows. “Unbelievable. Look, if you leave again, if you don’t stay here to help him through this, then do us all a favor and stay gone.”
Before I can say anything else, he gets up and storms over to the stairs. It’s blatantly obvious that I’m not invited to follow him. He’s angry, and he has every right to be, but the only way to fix that is to tell him why I left—which breaks rule number three.
Those rules are something I’ve lived by for the last nineteen months.
Rule one: End things with Hayes and leave Calder Bay entirely.
Rule two: Zero contact. You’re not allowed to see or speak to him at all.
Rule three: Do not, under ANY circumstances, tell him leaving was anything but your choice.
If you break any of these rules, I will see to it that Hayes is charged with the murder of Montgomery Rollins and spends the rest of his life in prison. I have enough evidence to guarantee his conviction. If you don’t believe me, turn this over.
Since the night I left, I followed the rules to a T—until tonight. Mali tried to point out thatshecould tell Hayes why I left without breaking the rules, but I don’t think our stalker will take kindly to exploiting a loophole. It wasn’t a risk I was willing to take. It still isn’t. And that’s exactly why I won’t tell Cam. Becausehewould tell Hayes before it finished coming out of my mouth.
Knowing he’s not coming back down, I hold back the tears and walk out the door. The message is clear; I’m not welcome here anymore.
Let the record show,I am not a patient person. After being forced to spend the night here, despite my insisting that I’mfine, I’m anxious to be discharged. Ever since my mom got sick, hospitals freak me out. They’re depressing and no one ever actuallywantsto be here.
I’m waiting for three hours to be discharged until I start to take matters into my own hands—starting with this fucking IV. They tape this shit on there as if you’re going to go to war and it needs to stay in place, which means ripping it off is never a good time. To be quite honest, it feels like you’re ripping off a layer of skin.
Just as I yank the thing out of my arm, using one of the napkins I had from the slop they call breakfast, the nurse walks in with my discharge papers. She gives me a look that tells me she’s not amused.
“You’re not supposed to do that,” she scolds me.
I plaster anI’m a good boysmile on my face. “I was just trying to help you out.”
“Mm-hm.” She comes over and looks down at my arm. “Move the napkin before you get an infection and let me see the damage.” As I do what she says, her lips purse. “Not bad. You’ll have a bruise now, which you probably wouldn’t had you just let me do it, but you’re not going to bleed to death.”
My eyes widen. “Was that actually a possibility?”
She shrugs and smirks at me. “You’ll think twice before you do it again, won’t you?”
I chuckle. “I’ll do you one better and never get an IV again to begin with.”
“Can’t beat you there.” She hands me a clipboard and starts going over the discharge papers. “You came in for injuries sustained by a motorcycle accident. You presented with two bruised ribs and a large abrasion on your left side. Your ribs will be sore for a few weeks, but make sure to follow up with your doctor. You’re being prescribed Vicodin. Take it every four to six hours as needed for pain. It’s important that you take it so that you don’t stick to shallow breaths from the pain of your ribs. The road rash is already scabbing over, so light shirts. They’ll hurt less. Any questions?”
“Just when can I get the fuck out of here,” I murmur.
She rolls her eyes playfully. “As soon as you sign the papers.”
I pull the pen out from behind the clip and scribble my name on the line, handing it back to her. She hands me my copy of the paperwork, along with my prescription, just as Cam walks in the room.
“Thank fuck,” I breathe. “Get me out of here.”
He looks me up and down before he smiles. “You going to wear that pretty gown out of here? Let your ass hang out and everything?”
“Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
The smile drops off his face as I use his own joke against him. “Fuck you.”
I snort. “In this gown, you probably could. Give me my clothes.”
