* * *
It was the afternoon by the time Mateo was recovered enough to move to a general ward.
The hospital kicked me out for a few hours. I took a nap in the car. Ate and drank everything Cam put in front of me. Then we faced evening visiting hours together and got the good news that Mateo could go home.
Cam helped him up.
Mateo allowed it.
But I let the seething monster in me die. He was okay, he was coming home. Honestly, nothing else fucking mattered.
We reached the car. Cam hadn’t slept, so I had to drive,carefully, remembering my own car trips with stitches in my belly. But Cam’s phone rang before I could slide behind the wheel and he stepped away to answer it.
Mateo eased himself into the passenger seat. “I’ll fucking puke in the back.”
“You want water?”
“Nah. Then I’ll have to get up again to piss.”
“It’s good to move around.”
“You do it then.”
He almost smiled.
I leaned in the doorway, loving that faint twinkle, hating his heavy eyes and pale face. “This journey’s gonna be murder.”
“My favourite thing.”
His hair was a wreck, the scent of the hospital clinging to every strand.
I leaned down and breathed him in anyway. “I love you.”
Mateo tipped his head back against the seat. “I thought you were angry.”
“Angry?”
“You’ve got the rage. I can feel it.”
“Maybe your radar’s off.”
“Hmm.” Mateo closed his eyes as I nuzzled his cheek and let my hands wander, massaging his neck and stroking his jaw, all the things I should’ve done in the hospital when he was being so fucking annoying.
“Are you hungry yet?”
“No.”
“When did you last eat?”
“Burger King.”
“Where?”
He mumbled the name of a city the haulage run had passed through three days ago, and his deteriorating communication since then began to make sense.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”
“I didn’t know.”