A stupidly happy expression settles on my face. How many kids do you want to have?
He responds quickly. Seven.
I laugh softly to myself. Is he messing with me? Sounds perfect. We’ll have seven little dwarves.
How many do you want? he types back.
I’ve always hoped for four or five. But I guess I can try to push it to seven, especially if we have some twins. And then we can name them Sleepy, Grumpy, Happy, Sneezy… I forget the rest.
Gabriel takes a second to text back. Are you sure about that? Why don’t we name them after Santa’s reindeer? Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid…
I can’t help giggling. Or just the days of the week. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday?
Perfect, Gabriel says. I bet the youngest ones, Friday and Saturday, will be real troublemakers. But Sunday Delacroix will be a good oldest sister, and help babysit them and keep them in line.
Or Monday can help out, while Sunday is off training to be an Olympic athlete, I suggest.
Gymnastics? Gabriel asks.
Or figure skating, I suggest. We should let Sunday decide.
I am sure that Sunday will win many gold medals, in whatever sport she chooses, Gabriel says. Now I should probably let you get some rest, I know you’ve been working long hours. Goodnight and have lovely dreams, sweetie.
He can be so kind and warm. Thank you, Gabe. Have a wonderful day. I hug my pillow closer against me, wishing it was him—and trying to ignore the worries and negative voices that always threaten to creep into my head.
Milla, he types to me again. I don’t know where we’re going, but I think we’re going there together.
Peace washes over me at these beautiful words. I sigh happily and let sleep overtake me.
It’s just not fair. He’s a romantic French writer and philosopher.
How could I not be swept away by his charm?
Chapter 7
Night after night, I sit with Yvette’s comatose body and talk to her.
Every chance I get, when the hospital is quiet and there’s a small break in the traffic, or when I’m able to take fifteen minutes to relax… I always find myself going to her room. And despite the fact that I’m falling in love with her husband—I still pray for her recovery.
I pray for her all the time.
Yes, I know it seems counterintuitive. I should be sitting here thinking about creative ways to make sure that she never wakes up so that I can properly steal her man. If this were a movie, I would be trying to inject something nasty into her IV or accidentally making her ventilator malfunction. Remove all obstacles in the way of my happiness. But that is just not me, and it never will be. I’m a nurse, and I’m here to protect her and make her healthy again. Even if I have no control over the situation.
Besides, I like Yvette.
I want her to be okay. And if Gabriel chooses me, I want it to be because he actually chooses me. Not because I gave him no other choice, or because I forced him into something or tricked him. How would I live with myself if I did that? How would I ever know it’s real between us? That’s not love—to build a future based on a lie.
So, instead, to assuage my guilt, I give Yvette nightly spa treatments.
Yep, you heard that right.
Tonight, I’m polishing her toenails.
Let’s play a drinking game. Have you ever sat with your patient in the middle of the night, giving her a pedicure because you felt super guilty about having tons of phone sex with her hot husband? No? Welcome to my life. Also, have a drink. (It doesn’t have to be alcoholic.)
I also like being close to her, because it makes me feel close to Gabriel. Being beside someone who knows him, someone who’s touched him. It’s difficult being in a relationship with someone on the other side of the planet. Especially when I work the night shift—midnight in Paris is 6 p.m. here, so Gabriel usually needs to go to sleep before I wake up. Sometimes the scheduling conflicts mean that we can barely speak to each other unless we both lose a lot of sleep. So, we have—we both barely slept lately, so that we can spend more time together. But it’s been hurting both of our health and work.
I insisted we both sleep and try to be responsible. And instead of speaking to him, I speak to his unconscious wife.
I ask her questions about him. I tell her about what he’s doing lately, and his work. I laugh about the latest book he’s writing, which sounds just as ridiculous as all the other ones. If he’s annoyed me, I complain to her about him, figuring that she will understand more than anyone. I also apologize to her. A lot.
“I’m so sorry, Evie. When you told me to handle him, I am pretty sure this isn’t what you meant.” Sighing, I finish painting her baby toe. “But that little birthmark on his hip is so cute, isn’t it? And how does he have such a nice stomach from being a professor? And writing books? He should have a potbelly or something, it’s not fair that he’s so fit.”
Silence then. She can’t exactly respond. But I imagine her response.
“I know, I know. It’s terrible of me. But you haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s been a bit lonely, okay? And I’m lonely too. Besides, you have your Sexy Babe. I saw those photos on your phone. That man is really nicely endowed—probably even a bit bigger than Gabe. And when you wake up, you can see him almost immediately, because your toes look cute. See? This color looks great on you. Although… your legs are getting a bit hairy, and we might have to do something about that.”
I am aware that she didn’t ask me to call her Sexy Babe
