My eyes widen even further when I see the photos Sexy Babe sent of his… er, package. And the salacious invitations he’s typed out for her over the past few weeks to cum over 2nite and instructions on what to wear. What to bring. Rope so I can tie you up and make you beg. Lube so we can try…
Whoa.
I press the button to lock her phone, feeling very guilty for snooping. I have never snooped into a patient’s personal life like this. I mean, the nature of the job causes me to be exposed to a lot of private and embarrassing information, but this is a new low for me. This was unnecessary and I’m not even sure why I was so curious.
But at least now I have some ideas on how she got sick. I am willing to bet that Sexy Babe wasn’t into practicing social distancing.
“Sorry, Evie,” I whisper to the comatose woman, touching her leg. Great, now I’m calling her by her husband’s personal nickname for her. I really need to get some sleep and eat something.
I shake my head, forcing myself to turn around and leave the room.
Chapter 4
I am finally wearing my soft pajamas and lying on my couch with a bag of Cheetos… but it’s not as satisfying as I hoped it would be. I’ve popped one or two into my mouth, but they just taste stale—empty calories that could never provide my body what it needs.
Instead, I’ve mainly been googling Y’s husband and reading about his career. He’s not on social media, so I can’t stalk him there, but I’ve been staring at his professional photos for a bit too long.
Gabriel Delacroix.
He looks to be in his early to mid-forties, and incredibly handsome. I am deadly exhausted, and have another shift starting soon, but I can’t stop staring at this man. And, I must confess, making faces at the strange names of the books he’s written.
STOP PRAYING, START ACTING. Why faith is a lie that keeps you from success.
Well, that explains that weird conversation we had earlier. He wasn’t joking about being nihilistic. That looks to be one of his earliest books, from over ten years ago. I wonder if that was the sort of philosophy that made Yvette fall in love with him. I can see the appeal. A cool, smoking, intellectual bad boy. Kind of irresistible.
STOP CELEBRATING HOLIDAYS. Finding joy in everyday life.
Well, that’s strange. It sounds like he forgot too many birthdays and anniversaries, and needed to develop some kind of clever justification for it. These seem more like popular self-help books than philosophy, but what do I know.
DEATH IS FINAL. Let go, stop grieving and start living.
Wow. That seems a bit harsh, doesn’t it? I suck the cheese off a Cheeto, absentmindedly. Super dark and depressing. How would he feel if someone told him to let go of Yvette?
LOVE IS DEAD. The end of marriage as an institution.
I am not sure why, but a grin tugs at my lips. Eventually, a huge smile overtakes my face until I am giggling softly. That book was published fairly recently. Well… I guess it’s no secret that he’s having relationship troubles. I would love nothing more than to open a bottle of wine, and sit here sipping and relaxing while reading these books—I am itching to take a closer look at the complex, frustrating insides of that man’s brain.
After seeing the titles and descriptions, and realizing how gloomy and edgy he is, I’m almost grateful that my life has been empty and devoid of love. Gabriel seems like way too much to handle. Poor Yvette! How did she ever live with him? Who wants to be married to a guy writing books about how LOVE IS DEAD?
Although… if he ever glanced at some of her text messages to Sexy Babe… I wince at the thought. Okay. Yeah. If I was Gabriel and I saw some of those dick picks on Yvette’s phone… well, I could definitely see how that would inspire a whole book about love being dead. But he did say that he was responsible for breaking her heart, over and over. For destroying her health. What if he cheated first? What if everything going on with Sexy Babe is just Yvette coping with her pain? Just a symptom or a response to whatever he did? What exactly did he do?
This couple is somehow more interesting to me than Netflix. I glance over at my kitchen, really tempted to get up and pour myself a glass of red, but I know I don’t drink enough water. Those long shifts at the hospital without anything to eat or drink are wreaking havoc on my health. I know I’ll feel like shit after having any alcohol at all—I tried it once, after a double shift when I lost three patients. I’ve never needed to get drunk so badly.
I experienced the worst hangover of my life, and my first attack of gout at thirty years old. My feet were killing me and I couldn’t walk without feeling like I was being stabbed by needles, for days. The dehydration is not a joke… although I am dying for the comfort of some Cabernet. It’s just not a luxury I can afford at the moment. Not something my body can handle.
I put aside my phone, and sigh, sinking into the couch. I’m not sure I even have the energy to drag myself over to the bed. And my apartment is very, very small.
My eyes have closed and I am already half asleep when my phone rings. I pick it up and look at the strange number in confusion. It’s a video call? What?
I am too drowsy to make sense of it, and I can only just barely push myself up into a seated position before answering. “Hello?”
It takes a second for the image to appear on the screen, and I am mortified. Of
