Page 38 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Celeste

The ceiling tiles are dancing again.

That’s how I know the good stuff has kicked in. Either that or I’ve finally ascended. My uterus is somewhere in hell, but the rest of me is floating peacefully toward whatever comes after. Probably brunch.

I shift against the pillows, relishing the faint hum in my limbs. Everything is just a little fuzzy, a little floaty, and I don’t hate it.

My eyes squint as a shadow moves across the door.

That’s a very tall hallucination. It’s wearing a suit and walking like it’s ready to strangle me .

“God, not now,” I whisper to no one.

Where’s my alarm? Someone’s going to kill me.

Hold on. Where the hell are my arms?

Oh, there they are.

I giggle and blink again.

The hallucination doesn’t fade.

It gets closer and angrier.

And also… hotter.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

“No,” I groan, dragging the heels of my hands over my eyes and throwing my head back against the pillow.

“Don’t ‘no’ me, Celeste Eleanor Morgan.”

Fuck.

“Did you seriously just full name me?”

“Yes. Yes, I did.”

I peek through my fingers.

Yup.

Julian.

In the flesh.

“You’re lying in a hospital bed and you didn’t think to tell me?”

Oh, painkillers. Sweet narcotic angels of mercy, please carry me through this moment and straight into the afterlife.

“Let me guess. Madison and Emmy?” I mutter. “I knew they couldn’t be trusted to keep their mouths shut.”

When I finally lower my hands, he’s right beside me, towering and gorgeous as ever. His eyes are still stormy but softer, like he’s angry for me instead of at me.

I slap my hands over my face again and fake cry. “You’re not supposed to see me like this,” I wail. “I’m supposed to be sexy and mysterious and irresistible. Not bed-bound and pumped full of morphine. ”

He takes my hands and coaxes them down from my face.

“The hospital gown is really doing it for me,” he says, smothering a smile.

I groan. “Stop. Just stop existing, please.”

He pulls up a chair as if we’re about to catch up over coffee instead of dealing with the trauma of my malfunctioning reproductive organs.

“Julian,” I whisper, waving him closer.

He leans in.

“They gave me all the good drugs.”

His lips twitch. “Oh, you’re high as a kite, aren’t you?”

I nod, then immediately sniff him.

Openly.

Like a feral bloodhound.

“God, you smell good. Like money and orgasms.”

He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest as if trying to regain some control.

Good luck with that, buddy. I’ve detached from Earth, and I’m not coming down.

“I’m glad you’re in a good mood,” he says dryly.

“I’m in an excellent mood. I can’t feel my uterus. This is the best day of my life.”

“Good, because I need to ask you some questions. Maybe medicated Celeste will give me some honest answers.”

“No fair. That’s emotional manipulation.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. “That’s exactly what this is.”

“I’m thirsty.”

I’m not, but I want to delay this conversation.

He grabs a cup of water from the tray table and holds the straw up to my lips .

I slurp loudly on purpose.

He rolls his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, when I’ve drained the cup dry. “What are you doing in the hospital? What happened?”

“Pain.”

He flinches.

“You were there last night,” I add.

“And you scared me half to death, but I still don’t know why you’re here.”

“You mean those traitors I call best friends told you I’m here, but not why I’m here?”

He nods.

“Goddamn it. That’s the hardest part to explain.”

When his hand slides into mine, he lifts it and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles.

“Celeste, I need you to talk to me.”

My throat tightens. I stare at our joined hands and try to pretend this isn’t the part where everything gets heavier.

“I have endometriosis. I had surgery six months ago. That was supposed to fix me, or at least help, but they found something else and I’m still…” My voice cracks a little. “I’m still broken, Julian.”

“You’re not broken,” he says with a certainty I don’t have. “What’s endometriosis and this other thing they found?”

I toss my head back and stare at the ceiling. “It’s really, really complicated.” I give him a sidelong glance. “A bit like us.”

He smiles against my hand as he kisses it. “We’re complicated?”

“Uh huh.” I nod. “And we fuck a lot.”

That earns me a full-body chuckle.

“We have great sex,” I inform him, just in case he isn’t aware. “Like, high-five level sex. You’re really good at it.”

He tries to smother a smile and fails. “You too.”

“I am, aren’t I?”

“Celeste—”

“You’re so pretty.”

“And you’re beautiful, but focus. What’s endometriosis?”

I sigh and pat his hand like he’s a very handsome, very dense puppy. “Tell you what. My doctor is due in about…” I squint at the clock. “Ten minutes.”

“Okay?”

“Stay and ask him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup. I give him full permission to tell you everything. He explains it better than I can. More charts, less crying.”

He doesn’t know it, but I’m testing him. I want to see how long it’ll take for him to bolt because this—me, in a hospital bed, weak and bloated and full of painkillers and pelvic trauma—this isn’t fun. This isn’t flirty or mysterious.

This isn’t sex in the back of his car. This isn’t hot and heavy in his office.

This isn’t even the tension that follows us on our morning runs.

This is the bullshit part.

This is where I expect him to say, “Hey, I’ve got a thing,” and quietly disappear.

I grip his hand a little tighter because I already like him too much, and I’m terrified that when the answers come, he’ll realize just how messy I am.

I must doze off for a few minutes because the next thing I feel is a soft nudge at my shoulder .

My eyes peel open, only to land on a man in a white coat standing over me.

I blink, trying to orient myself.

Julian clears his throat before rising to introduce himself to Dr. Patel.

“Doc,” I say, my voice scratchy, “I’m way too out of it to explain to the man I’m having sex with about this condition, so if you could do me a favor and break it to him gently, or scare him off entirely, that would be great.”

Julian pinches the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, do your worst,” I add, waving a hand. “Be graphic. Use diagrams if you have to.”

Dr. Patel levels me with a dry stare. “Are you giving me permission to discuss your medical history, Celeste?”

I salute him weakly. “I’m drugged up, Doc, not incapable of making decisions. Permission granted.”

Then I drop my head back on the pillow and listen as Dr. Patel explains what Julian probably never expected to hear when he walked into this hospital room today.

He starts at the beginning and explains how I went years undiagnosed.

That it began with irregular periods and fatigue.

How the pain grew until it was so severe that it made it hard to walk, let alone function.

He tells Julian that the surgery I had six months ago was successful. The endometriosis they found then hasn’t grown back, but the pain isn’t from that anymore. Something else was missed.

Something called Adenomyosis.

He explains that it’s similar to endometriosis, except the tissue grows inside the muscle wall of the uterus instead of outside it. It’s easily missed or mistaken for something else, which is why it wasn’t caught before.

It’s a bunch of medical jargon and words I hardly understand, but Julian listens intently the entire time.

He’s still holding my hand.

Still here.

Dr. Patel doesn’t sugarcoat things. My symptoms are severe, and I don’t respond well to hormonal treatments. He tells Julian that I don’t have to make my mind up right away, but the only cure for my condition is a hysterectomy, which means the kids I’m not sure I want are definitely off the table.

The decision has been made for me, and I feel a bit devastated.

It’s just another reminder that my body doesn’t follow the rules. That being a woman sometimes means bleeding out in ways no one else sees.

After a long pause, Dr. Patel turns to me, his tone gentler now, like he knows the weight of every word just spoken. “We’ll discuss it again after you’ve had a chance to let it sink in.”

“When can I go home?”

“Once your pain is under control. Maybe a day or two. I’ll check in on you before you’re discharged. ”

I nod slowly, my voice caught somewhere between the drugs and the truth.

We stay quiet after Dr. Patel leaves, and oddly, I’m glad for it. I don’t want comforting words. I don’t want pity or empty reassurances. I don’t even want to be looked at, honestly.

I just want the pain to stop.

The pain in my abdomen, yes, but also the one burrowed deeper. The one whispering that now that he knows, he’ll go.

I speak first. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back at work on Monday. My team is more than capable of overseeing any issues with the build when I’m not there. If there’s anything else, I’ll deal with it when—”

“Celeste.” His voice cuts through me. “Fuck the build.”

I blink back tears and swallow the burn in my throat.

“Are you going to look at me?”

Reluctantly, I lift my chin.

“There’s my girl.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

I am not emotionally prepared for this. I’m going to cry and fart and probably say something horrifying. The drugs are still doing their thing, and I am not in a stable condition for this level of affection.

He leans down and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Get some rest.”

All I can do is nod.

Then he leaves.

And I break.

This is it, isn’t it?

This is where he disappears.

It’s not malicious. It’s human. Nobody signs up for this.

I spiral hard for five whole minutes before the door swings open again.

“What the hell?” I whisper.

Julian strides in with his arms full of vending machine snacks. He dumps them on the rolling tray and grabs the remote off the bedside table like this is a perfectly normal Friday night.

He flicks on the TV, then turns to me. “Right. I love your ass, but it’s not that big. ”

I gape at him. “What is happening right now?”

He shrugs off his jacket, kicks off his expensive shoes, and points at the bed again. “Move. This side’s mine now.”

Still confused, but too drugged to argue, I slide over and watch with wide eyes as he climbs into the hospital bed with me.

“I smell,” I tell him, glancing down at the blue hospital gown while embarrassment finally climbs its way up my throat. “I haven’t been able to change yet.”

Rolling his eyes, he shifts me gently into his side. “I work out with you, remember? You’ve smelled worse.”

“Oh, be still my beating heart.”

It’s with my head on his chest that the relief floods my body like oxygen.

The tears come hot and fast, spilling down my cheeks before I can stop them. He doesn’t mention it, even though I’m sure he can feel the moisture soaking through his shirt.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted chocolate,” he says, reaching for the snacks, “or chips, so I got both.”

I sniffle and try to compose myself. “Both are good. I’m high on drugs and hungry.”

He turns the volume up on the TV. “I figured.”

I swallow, trying to stop the crack in my voice when I say, “Thank you… for staying.”

Brushing a thumb over my cheek, he squeezes me closer. “You know, you’re very sweet when you’re all drugged up.”

“You’re very sweet when you’re not driving me into the headboard,” I tell him, feeling the blush bloom across my cheeks.

After a long moment of silence, I rest my chin on his chest to look at him .

“What’s up, sweetheart?”

I giggle. Actually giggle. “You called me sweetheart.”

“I’ve called you worse.”

I bite my dry bottom lip. “We’re going to have sex again.”

His gaze flits back to the TV screen. “Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“Okay, when we can be sure I won’t hurt you.”

My smile falters. “You didn’t hurt me. My body hurt me.” I inhale a shaky breath, hating the burn in my chest. “Sometimes the hardest part of living in a body like mine is knowing the pain doesn’t always need a reason. It just shows up and takes whatever it wants.”

His brows pinch together, and I’m not sure who looks more in pain right now, but I feel the reassuring pressure of his hand on my back.

“Julian?”

His throat bobs on a swallow. “Yeah?”

“If I died right now, would you tell people I was hot? Like, would you exaggerate a bit? I want to be remembered fondly.”

He stares down at me. “You’re not dying.”

“But if I was.”

“Yes. I’d tell them you were drop-dead gorgeous, and there would be no exaggeration involved.” He reaches over and nudges my foot with his. “Anything else?”

“Yes. If I don’t make it…”

“You’re not dying, Celeste.”

“…delete my search history. There’s some weird shit in there.”