Page 44 of Dearly Unbeloved (Spicy in Seattle #3)

ROSE

T he past thirty-six hours have been the longest of my life. Why do hospitals promise you’ll be discharged “soon,” then take an entire day to process shit? But Sierra is here, in our apartment—because it’s still ours, even if she doesn’t live here anymore—and everything feels a little easier.

At some point, before picking me up, Sierra moved the blow-up mattress from the living room, and there’s no sign of it. Which is just as well, because I really don’t want to explain that I haven’t been able to sleep in my bed or on the couch since she left, because they remind me of her.

“I put new sheets on your bed,” she says as she carries my bag toward my room. “I thought it might be nice after the hospital sheets. ”

We haven’t talked about her leaving, or the fact that I still haven’t filed the divorce paperwork.

I haven’t even called the lawyer to set up an appointment yet, and I suppose I can probably weasel out of it for a while longer, considering I’m just out of the hospital and it’s almost Christmas.

That can be a next year problem. For now, I’m pretending it didn’t happen.

It can’t be awkward if we don’t address it at all.

I get ready in the bathroom before heading to my room, where I can hear Sierra pottering around.

I pause in the doorway. Someone—Sierra, presumably—has brought the armchair from the living room through and set it up so it’s facing my bed directly. It’s giving cuck chair.

“What’s up with the chair?”

Sierra lifts the blankets on my bed and waits until I climb under them. I close my eyes, and a moan slips from my lips before I can stop it because the sheets feel so nice.

“The chair is so I can watch over you while you sleep.”

I crack an eye. “You’re going to sit in that all night and watch me sleep? Who are you—Santa?” She stares blankly at me until I elaborate. “He sees you when you’re sleeping.”

“I think our parents focused on different elements of Santa. But yes, I am. The doctor said I don’t have to wake you, but I need to keep an eye through the night. Do you want the light on or off?”

I look between the chair and Sierra, who’s waiting by my nightstand to turn the lamp off. “Sierra.”

“What? ”

“Just get in the bed. You’re not sitting in a chair all night.”

Sierra hesitates, but nods. “Light?”

“Off, please.”

She clicks off the lamp and climbs in on the other side of the bed, keeping a foot between us. “Goodnight, Rose.”

“Goodnight.”

I close my eyes and try to quiet my mind, but I can’t settle. Exhaustion is weighing me down, but every time I’ve tried to sleep since the explosion, I’ve been tormented by nightmares: the moment of impact, the choking smoke, the bone-deep panic that I can’t get everyone out.

“You okay? You’re restless,” Sierra asks.

Even with my eyes closed, I can tell she’s watching me.

I explain the nightmares, the words slurred with sleepiness, and Sierra shifts closer to me. She slings an arm over my middle, resting her hand on top of mine.

“Sleep, honey. I’ve got you,” she murmurs, and her voice is the last thing I hear before I drift off.

I wake up eight hours later, without having a single nightmare.

It’s amazing what a night of good sleep will do. On the one hand, I feel much better physically. My head hurts less, my arm is more annoying than painful, and the room has stopped spinning every time I move .

On the other hand, without the pain and discomfort to distract me, I’m all too aware of Sierra’s presence.

She floats around the apartment, cleaning and tidying, bringing me water and snacks (and watching to make sure I eat and drink), and humming away to herself.

I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing it.

It’s night and day to the gaunt, hollow Sierra who appeared in the doorway of my hospital room on Thursday.

I like it a lot. Love it, even. I want her to be happy and comfortable here. But it’s also completely unnerving, because I have no idea what it means.

It could mean she’s just happy I’m okay.

Or it could mean she’s happy to be home.

Or it could mean she wants me back—wants me, period, since we were never technically together.

Or it could mean nothing at all, and I’m going to end up heartbroken all over again when she leaves.

It’s all so fucking complicated. But she’s here for now, and I’ve missed her too much to worry about what may or may not happen next.

I get up from the couch and stretch, rolling my shoulders.

“What’s wrong? Do you need something? A snack? A drink? Pain killers?” Sierra is at my side in a flash.

“I’m okay,” I reassure her. “I know I can’t shower, but I was thinking I might have a sink bath and clean up a little.”

“Do you want help?” she asks before I can even get all the words out.

“I think I’ll manage, but I’ll shout if I need you,” I promise, and she steps back to let me pass, watching me like a hawk with every step I take toward the bathroom. The overprotectiveness should probably annoy me, but it’s Sierra, so I like it.

I struggle through my sink bath, and I have to forgo most of my skincare routine, but I feel better when I smell less like a combination of smoke and the hospital.

Putting on a bra one-handed is out of the question—why have I never invested in a front-closing bra?

—but I manage to wriggle into one of the sweatshirts Sierra left behind.

It’s a navy tour crewneck, one of her favorites, and I’ve been living in it for the past couple of weeks.

It’s mostly lost the sweet scent of her, but maybe it’ll reabsorb it while she’s here.

My mirror is not my friend right now, somehow making every bruise and scratch look so much worse than they do when I see them through my own eyes. But I’m alive, and so is everyone else, and Sierra is here. What more could I ask for?

I rub my ring finger with my thumb. I feel so naked without my ring.

The bag they put my stuff in at the hospital is on my dresser.

Sierra already took out my clothes, did the laundry, and has put it away.

It’s a little unnerving, but I tip the rest of it on the bed, rummaging through the sheer amount of shit I had in my pockets.

Chapstick, several pens, packaging from lab equipment I hadn’t gotten around to trashing, a five-dollar bill, my sunglasses… but no ring.

Panic rises in my chest. Oh god. Did it get lost? Did someone steal it? I’m going to be sick.

I rush back to the dresser, pushing aside pill bottles and information sheets the hospital gave me. My cast catches a candle and it crashes to the ground with a loud thud, the glass cracking into two big chunks.

“Fuck,” I say, tears gathering in my eyes. I fall to my knees, my head spinning at the sudden movement, a moment before Sierra rushes in.

Her eyes widen as she spots me, and she instantly drops beside me. “Shit, what happened? Did you fall? Are you okay, honey?”

“I knocked the candle over. I’m sorry. I’m okay, I… I…” I can’t get anything else out because I can’t get any more oxygen into my lungs.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” Sierra murmurs, picking the candle up and reaching to put it back on the dresser. “Just breathe.”

She helps me up as I try to force myself to breathe. My lungs are screaming, my throat is dry as hell, and my eyes are burning as I try to fight back the panicked tears desperate to fall.

Sierra cups my face, running her thumb gently across my cheekbone. “Talk to me, Rosie. What’s going on?”

I finally inhale a big gulp of air, and tears spill down my cheeks as I croak, “I can’t find my ring. I must have lost it in the explosion, or someone at the hospital took it, but I can’t find it. It’s gone.”

“I have it. I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. I saw it in your bag when I was getting the keys, and I didn’t want it to get lost, so I took it.”

The second the words leave Sierra’s mouth, I feel my body slump. First in relief, then with exhaustion. I’m so fucking tired. My body is sore, my thoughts are muddled, and my heart doesn’t feel like my own anymore. It hasn’t felt like mine in a while.

Sierra must see it on my face because she tightens her grasp on me, and her eyes flood with emotion. “Rose?—”

“You left me.” I don’t say it as much as sob it, the words falling out like I’ve been holding them in for years rather than weeks.

I step out of her hold, wobbly on my feet.

“I know that was always the plan, but you left without saying goodbye. I told you I wanted to talk, and you just left .” My voice creeps higher and higher with every word, and I don’t know how much she can understand as I cry harder.

She watches me, her mouth parted slightly, completely still. But now that I’ve started, I’m finding it hard to stop.

“You didn’t even give me a chance to ask you to stay. And I know this is what we agreed, and maybe it’s my fault for falling for you anyway, but you just left. You made me fucking fall for you and then you left!”

“You were going to ask me to stay? That’s why you wanted to talk?” Sierra’s voice is the opposite of mine, barely above a whisper.

“Yes. And I know that’s not what we planned, but you could’ve said no. I could’ve handled it. That would’ve been better than coming home to an empty apartment and signed divorce papers.” My voice cracks, and Sierra looks away, sucking in a breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, I should never… It was all too much, and I got scared. It’s not an excuse, but I’m so sorry.”

I can tell she means it, but her apology does nothing to repair the fissure between the two halves of my heart. But that’s not her responsibility to fix, and it never was. This wasn’t what we agreed.