I ordered takeout for myself. After the IV drip, I went to the doctor for a prescription.
The doctor looked at me several times before speaking. “Was that your wife just now?”
“My ex.”
“That’s good. I was wondering, while you were unconscious, he and that short-haired man were cuddling in the hallway, then kissing by your bed, like the hospital was their hotel.”
She handed me the prescription and her phone. “Leave me your contact. If you feel unwell, you can reach me anytime.”
I saw the expectation in her eyes and nodded, understanding.
When I got home, I saw a message from Kendall.
[There’s an urgent matter at the company, so I can’t be with you. If you feel unwell, just message me and I’ll come right away.]
It sounded caring.
But I remembered the time I had acute gastroenteritis, curled up in pain. Kendall, annoyed that I disturbed her sleep, had taken the quilt and gone to the study.
“If you feel unwell, go see a doctor. What’s the point of telling me? I can’t treat you!”
So this time, weak and upset, I contacted the doctor I had just met. We had coffee, walked around together and I felt much better.
But when I returned home, I was stunned.