Page 111 of Double Standards

She disappears down the hallway, and I follow her instructions without complaint. The hot water washes away the grime of grief, and with it, some of the weight that’s been sitting on my chest.

I get dressed: jeans, boots, a sweater. Simple. Warm. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are sunken, my lips cracked. I don’t bother with makeup. No amount of concealer can hide this kind of pain. But the hopefulness I feel takes the edge off a little.

The city blurs past as Lexie drives, headlights streaking across my vision like ghosts I can’t hold onto. My stomach’s in knots, and every turn feels like we’re racing toward something I’m not ready to face. When we finally pull into the hospital's drop-off bay, Lexie throws the car in park and grabs my hand. Her fingers are warm, grounding. Mine are ice. I try to breathe, but it catches in my throat.

“Want me to come in with you?” she asks gently, her hand still wrapped around mine.

I shake my head, even though every part of me wants to say yes. But this is something I have to do alone. I force my limbs to move, legs stiff and unsteady like I’m walking through wet cement.

Inside, the hospital air hits me—too cold, too sterile, too full of memories. I head straight for the elevator, trying to ignore the knot twisting in my stomach. Each step echoes with doubt. Nerves buzz beneath my skin like static.

What if he’s awake?

What if he’s not?

What if he opens his eyes and looks right through me?

What if he remembers everything, and wishes he didn’t?

What if… he blames me?

The elevator doors slide open, and I close my eyes, bracing myself for whatever comes next. But before I can step inside, I hear my name.

“Miss Caruthers?”

Dr. Miller approaches with a clipboard hugged to her chest. She looks tired, but her smile is kind.

“I’m here to see Axel,” I say, trying to sound composed.

Her expression shifts. “Mr. Bonanno was discharged this morning.”

I blink. “What?”

“I’m sorry… I thought someone called?—”

“No one called,” I snap, the ground shifting beneath me. “You said you would call when he woke up.”

She fumbles for words, but I don’t wait to hear them. My feet carry me out the front doors, rage and confusion pulsing through me like electricity. I gasp in cold air, my chest heaving. Then I bolt.

The cab ride to Axel’s is silent, the kind of silence that buzzes in your ears and makes every streetlight blur. The city outside the window rushes past in streaks of gold and gray, but none ofit registers. My phone is cold in my hand as I dial his number again.

Voicemail.

I hang up. Call back. Still nothing.

Each second stretches, taut and thin like a frayed wire ready to snap.

By the time the cab turns onto his block, my heart is a clenched fist in my chest—tight, aching, bracing for impact. I shove a few bills at the driver and step out, barely remembering to shut the door behind me.

His building looms in front of me. Lights off. No sign of movement. I swallow hard, fingers trembling as I pull my phone out one last time.

Voicemail again.

Something’s wrong. I feel it in my bones. Not just worry, not just the sting of being ignored, but a deep, gnawing dread that wraps around my spine and doesn’t let go.

I climb the steps with legs that feel like they belong to someone else. Every footfall echoes too loud in the quiet. My breath fogs in the winter air as I raise my fist to knock, pausing just a second, just long enough to second-guess everything.

Then I knock.