Chapter 11
I almost walked past her.
She had changed into jeans and a cream sweater. No makeup. Her blonde hair was pulled back.
For the first time since I’d known her, she looked twenty-four.
Not glamorous.
Not dramatic.
Just young.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
Her face tightened.
“I came to see you.”
“You should go home.”
“Dominic, please.”
I glanced toward Clara’s room.
“Not here.”
We walked toward an empty visitors’ lounge.
Serena stood near the window.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“That almost sounds worse.”
I was too tired to argue.
She wrapped her arms around herself.
“I shouldn’t have come last night.”
“You were sick.”
“I was dehydrated and panicking. I wasn’t dying.”
I said nothing.
Her eyes filled, but she blinked quickly.
“I liked that you came running.”
The admission surprised me.
She continued.
“Every time I needed something, you showed up. Dinner. Flights. Doctors. Hotels. Whatever.”
“I made those choices.”
“I know.”
There was more maturity in her voice than I had expected.
“I started inventing reasons to need you.”
I looked at her.
She gave a humorless little smile.
“Not completely inventing. But exaggerating. Making everything an emergency.”
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because last night I watched you see your wife on that stretcher.”
Her voice dropped.
“And for the first time, I understood what I had actually been participating in.”
“This isn’t all on you.”
“I know that too.”
She wiped beneath one eye.
“That’s another thing I’ve been pretending not to know.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Serena—”
“I’m leaving.”
I frowned.
“Chicago?”
“You.”
The word landed quietly.
No scene.
No accusation.
No bargaining.
“I’ve spent a year convincing myself that if you chose me often enough, eventually it would mean you loved me more.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“But when those doors opened last night, you forgot I existed.”
I could have denied it.
I didn’t.
“Maybe that’s the answer I should’ve accepted months ago.”
“Serena.”
She shook her head.
“I’m not asking you for anything.”
For once, she truly wasn’t.
“I hope Clara gets better,” she said.
Then she picked up her coat and left.
I watched her walk away.
A year of my life ended without a slammed door.
Strangely, that made it feel more real.
Clara woke the following afternoon.
I was asleep in the chair beside her when her fingers moved beneath mine.