When we take her on our honeymoon, we will be sure to have a bed big enough for three.
When we take her on our honeymoon, we will be sure to have a bed big enough for three.
Violet’s pov
Michael arrived with my backpack, bringing everything I had asked for and then some. I was not allowed a real shower, but I managed a sponge bath at the sink, cleaning away the lingering hospital grime. A nurse had already helped me with feminine supplies, providing a bag of the bulkiest pads I had ever tried to maneuver into place.
Some things you never truly appreciate until they are gone. Simple luxuries, like clean underwear and your own toothbrush.
And then there were the people. I was learning to value two particular men more with every passing hour.
Michael dragged the recliner close to my bed, and we scrolled through the mindless channels on the television. After two full cycles, we settled on reruns of ancient game shows, competing with a lazy sort of dedication to answer the outdated trivia first. His hand enveloped mine the entire time, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on my wrist.
The hospital was a cage of boredom and discomfort, but Michael made the confinement tolerable.
A nurse’s aide delivered a breakfast tray, and I stared at its contents with pure revulsion. A slab of rubbery yellow substance pretending to be scrambled eggs, a bowl of gluey oatmeal, a cup of oily margarine, and packets of chemical sweetener. A small, dark lake of coffee sat beside two slices of cold, damp toast they claimed was gluten-free. A single banana completed the sad display.
Michael snatched the banana. “And we wonder why Americans are so unhealthy.” I picked up a blue packet of sweetener. “Did you know this one is a known carcinogen? It can trigger migraines. And they are serving this to people who are supposed to be healing?”
He nodded, peeling the fruit. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Do you want me to sneak you some real meat?” He wiggled his eyebrows, and a smirk tugged at my lips.
“You did not bring my meat?” I teased.
“I will always bring your meat,” he vowed, shifting his hips with a suggestive grin. His ridiculousness made me laugh, a sharp, painful sensation that pulled at the bruises on my chest.
“No.” I leaned back against the pillow, rubbing the sore spot. “I am not hungry. Hopefully, I will be out of this place before dinner.”
My recovery from the anaphylaxis was progressing normally and fast. They had taken me off the IV bags but left the port in my arm, just in case. The heart monitor still clung to my chest, but the nurses thought they would likely disconnect me by noon. So it was just a waiting game, a slow burn of boredom, fatigue, and a creeping gloom. Thank God for Michael; his presence was a shield against the dark spiral of my own thoughts.
By noon, the cardiologist had still not appeared, but Richard did. He strode into the room like a gorgeous storm, his business attire a stark contrast to the sterile environment. He presented me with my birthday water bottle, the one I had never gotten to use. I heard the ice cubes clinking inside, and when I opened it and took a sip, the sharp, clean taste of fresh lemon washed over my tongue.
“Ah, Richard, my hero.”
“What about me!” Michael pouted. “I brought your entire bag!”
“You too,” I amended, patting Michael’s hand.
Then Richard surprised me, gently nudging me to the side and climbing onto the narrow mattress beside me. It was a tight fit, but we made it work. He slid his arm behind my back, and I curled willingly into his side. “Are you okay, Violet?” he asked, his tone grave.
I let out a long breath and rested my head against his chest. The steady, solid thump of his heart was a comfort beneath my ear. “I do not know,” I answered honestly. How was I supposed to be okay? My father was murdered, and my mother tried to kill me. The next question was a fucking siren in my mind: did my mother kill my father? The idea of my frail, delicate mother pressing a gun under his chin and pulling the trigger seemed impossible… and yet.
“I am so confused,” I breathed out.
Richard bent his head, pressing a kiss into my hair. “It is all right, sweetheart. We have you. I reserved a suite for us until we sort out new living arrangements. All of your things are in my car right now.”
I lifted my head to give him a grateful smile, then flashed the same look to Michael so he would not feel excluded. I felt a twinge of guilt that he could not join us on the small bed, but Michael was built on a different scale; he would not have fit even by himself.
“There is something else I need to tell you,” I said, my voice so quiet Richard had to dip his head to hear me. I drew a deep breath before continuing. “I have my period. I… I am not pregnant.”
Michael let out a low, “Damn.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.
A shadow, something like sorrow, passed over Richard’s face. It was there and gone in an instant. He kissed the tip of my nose and offered a small, tender smile. “We will have plenty of time to plan our family,” he murmured. “Do not worry.”
When he spoke like that, it sent a cascade of warm, tingling sensation through me, as if our future was an absolute, unshakable certainty.
A loud, deliberate throat-clearing cut through the moment. I looked up to see the elderly cardiologist glaring at us over his glasses, my chart clutched like a shield against his white coat. “I am going to have to ask you to get off the bed, young man. This is a hospital, not a honeymoon suite.”
I giggled. Michael began to chuckle. Finally, even Richard cracked a smile as he untangled himself and slipped off the mattress. “You are absolutely right, Doctor,” he conceded. “When we take her on our honeymoon, we will be sure to have a bed big enough for three.”