“Yes. The ICU.”

“But I thought he…” I shake my head, feeling dizzy and disoriented. “I thought it wasn’t serious. The nurse said…”

“What nurse?” the doctor asks. He looks peeved. Like he’s in a hurry and I’m keeping him from something.

“The nurse who called. She said he wasn’t hurt badly.”

The surgeon’s eyes narrow. “Our nurses don’t make phone calls about patients. Can you tell me what you’re talking about?”

I frown. I’m feeling…frozen. Like I’m in a state of shock. “He’s really in the ICU? I just…I haven’t even been worrying.” God. I feel like such an awful friend.

All I can think about is how Cross would feel about being back inside an ICU. I was with him so often after he woke up from his coma. Cross and I. Just Cross and I. He told me things he hadn’t told anyone…and…God, it breaks my heart to think he’s here again. Inside another hospital. Recovering again.

I bite my lip and turn away. Lizzy and Hunter keep talking to the doctor, but I need to find somewhere to collect myself. I notice Marchant noticing me, and he acts like he’s going to break away from the discussion to check on me.

No thank you.

I take off down the nearest hall I see. My emotions are like clothes being tossed around a dryer. I can’t tell up from down. All I know is that I’m hurt, and I don’t want to see Marchant Radcliffe or anyone else right now.

He follows me. Of course he does. I pick up my pace, till I’m practically running past doors and carts and metal structures like wine racks but laden with oxygen tanks, past a nurse wearing mint green scrubs when I can feel him closing in on me.

“Suri Dalton, slow the fuck down!”

I toss a blurry glance back over my shoulder. “Don’t curse at me! And go away!”

I don’t know why I’m so upset. I just can’t synthesize it. Then I remember—they said Cross was married—and it’s like something bursts open inside my chest, and I’m directionless and dizzy and distraught, and I realize what I’ve wanted this whole time: to be settled. I knew I wanted that, of course, but I didn’t know how much until right now. I think of Cross’s strong, stable arms around another woman and I feel like something is clawing at my heart.

Why don’t I have that?

Why didn’t he want me?

Why didn’t Adam care enough about me to change?

For a moment, I almost forget I’ve got Marchant Radcliffe on my heels. Then I can’t forget, because he’s right there on me, grabbing my arm.

I push away from him, and he pushes me up against the wall. His arms touch down on either side of me, pinning me in. His hand goes into my hair and I can feel him breathing, smell him breathing. Smell the vodka.

“Jesus, woman. You can move.”

I react irrationally, because in the moment, I’m grieving. Not just for the loss of any chance I might have wanted with Cross, but for the loss of what I thought I had with Adam.

I miss being coupled! I miss snuggling up to a warm body in bed. I miss being known. Being accepted and loved.

I blink at the beautiful man in front of me, and I push against his chest as I start to cry. “Go away,” I sob. “I’m upset!”

His mouth is on my neck so fast, I don’t know what hit me. “That’s exactly why—” he says as he bites me— “I’m not leaving you alone.”

He kisses me, and I kiss him back. My hands are all over him, grabbing at his hips, pulling him into me. He grabs my breasts, my ass. His hand moves to my back, where his fingers dig so hard they almost hurt.

As he looks at me, his eyes grow stormy. Just like Adam’s used to. “You his girlfriend, Dalton?”

 “What are you talking about?”

“Are you Carlson’s girlfriend?”

“Why?”

“Are you?” He looks pissed off.

“No.”

“You wish you were?”

“That’s not your business.”

“Everything about you is my business.”

“You’re crazy.”

“And you’ve got a thing for Carlson.”

“No I don’t. We’re just friends.” But I sound guilty.

His face goes from furious to disdainful in a second. He looks me up and down—scornful in his assessment. And like before, in the bathroom at the Wynn, I feel as if he can see every part of me I don’t like. His eyes return to mine, heavy with the verdict of his judgment. “I had pegged you for lonely and inexperienced, Dalton. Not desperate.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth falls open, because I’m shocked. Not just by the meanness of his comment—although it is definitely mean—but because it snags me like an arrow in between the ribs. Because it’s true. I’m both lonely and desperate. How did I get here? I blink at him, and the hall around me seems to tilt.

“You’re an asshole,” I whisper.

He glares, a smirking, petulant look that reminds me slightly of a child. Or a drunk. I close my eyes. He’s just like Adam. Nice guy, sober. Mean drunk. I’m single for mere weeks and the first guy who catches my eye is a mean drunk!

My eyes tear up again, and I think it’s probably good that I’m infertile—a failsafe, because apparently the only men I’m going to end up with are assholes.

I rub my eyes and get a blurry glimpse of Marchant Radcliffe. He looks serious. Almost solemn. “You’re right,” he says. “I am an asshole. Crippled Carlson’s probably a better choice.”

He shrugs, then stalks toward the elevators, and this time I know my mouth is hanging open.

SURI

I veer down a different hallway, wrapping my hand around my blouse and jerking hard as I let out a furious sob.

I look down to find my bra showing. It’s lacy and beige, and I don’t know when anyone will see it again. This makes me cry harder. And then I pass a man in scrubs and I realize…I’m half naked!

“Damnit.” I look up and down the hall. A dozen or so yards ahead of me, a group of people in scrubs rounds a corner. They look young. Like…my age. Interns? Residents?

I clamp my hand over my mouth and try the first door I see. It’s unlocked, so I rush inside. I blink at some metal supply shelves through blurry eyes and try to hold back my tears so the people passing by in the hallway won’t hear me crying like a lunatic. Then I see the woman standing in front of me and I’m so shocked I start to sob again.

Everything is so messed up…

I don’t plan to sit down; my legs wobble, and suddenly I’m sitting cross-legged on the cold tile floor, holding my head because I’m freaking out. And I’m not thinking about Marchant Radcliffe, the world’s biggest dick. I’m thinking about Cross. Who might be married. Cross who I tried and failed to seduce. Cross who I could have loved. Could have built a life with.

I mean, yes, he’s a player sometimes. Yes, he gets drunk and horny and seduces twins with names like Barbie and Cookie. But he’s a good guy, and he’s my friend. And suddenly, I want him more than anything. But he doesn’t want me.

I fold a hand over my head. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with ME?!” My eyes fly to the woman in the closet with me.

She’s got wild red hair and big green eyes, and I can’t stand the weight of her curious gaze so I jump up. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me!”

She’s about my age, and she looks like she thinks I just escaped the psych ward. I’m crying as I watch her gather herself. I can practically see her trying to decide what to say as she looks me over. I press my lips together to try to stop my crying, and she settles on: “What happened to your shirt?”

That sets off another wave of sobs. I look at the girl through my tears, and she looks at me. She looks freaked out. I don’t blame her. I rub my hand over my face and say, “I tore it.”

She looks at me like she’s wondering how that happened, and I shake my head. “No, I’m saying I tore it. I got pissed off and tore it, like a wrestler!”

The woman laughs. I laugh, too. “It’s okay. I’m insane. I know.”

“You’re not insane. Just upset,” she says kindly. And I notice that her red hair is wild. Like she’s been on an adventure. Maybe she has. Maybe she would understand if I told her.