Page 124 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

All I could do was nod and say, “Thank you.”

“He’ll be a little,” the doctor swirled his index finger next to his head with a laugh, “so don’t expect him to be a great conversationalist. He might even be asleep when you get in there, but we’ll make sure you get to see him in a few minutes.”

I smiled awkwardly, suddenly feeling nauseated. “Okay. Thank you, Dr. Sharif.”

“Of course,” he said, walking away backwards. “A nurse will be out in a few minutes to fetch you, okay?”

“Okay.”

Then he was gone again.

For some reason, the three minutes—I watched the clock—that passed between seeing the doctor and the nurse appearing to take me to the recovery room seemed longer than the wait for the surgery to be over. The nurse was as pleasant as the doctor, quick to let me know that Peter was fine, but my nerves were such that I could barely listen to her news of Peter as we made our way down hall after hall towards recovery. It wasn’t until we were standing in a large, sterile room, one wall lined with hospital beds, and the other comprised of a nurses’ station, and I was standing in front of a drawn curtain, that I actually began to listen to her.

“…he’s being a little silly,” she said, “but he’ll be so happy to see you. He’s been asking for you since he woke up. Loudly.”

“He’s awake?” I asked softly as she reached for the curtain.

“Oh, God yes,” she laughed. “Wide awake. For now, anyway.”

I couldn’t quite decipher what her laugh meant, so I waited. When she pulled back the blue curtain, and I found Peter laying in the bed inside the makeshift room, my nausea evaporated and my heart leapt in my chest. Peter, his color returned—though his hair was a mess—was looking around the room, his head lolling around on his neck like a balloon on a stick. He was smiling goofily and his eyes looked glassy. But he was awake. Alive.

At the sound of the curtain being pulled back, Peter’s head swung on his neck to see who was coming to his bedside. His eyes landed on me and the biggest, dopiest grin overtook his face.

“Enzooooooooooo,” he crowed.

The nurse patted my back. “Good luck with this one.”

She chuckled and walked away, leaving me with Peter. Padding over to the side of his bed, which Peter was patting heavily with his hand that had an IV sticking out of it, I lowered myself to the bed gently.

“Enzo,” Peter repeated. “My sexy husband. Did you get handsomer?”

Peter’s words were slurred and not quite pronounced correctly, but I didn’t care. I wanted to laugh, but, instead, a tear slid down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away and slid my hand under Peter’s, making sure not to disturb his IV.

“I’m still the same amount of handsome.” I chuckled wetly. “Hey. Husband.”

“Heeeeeeeeeeey, husband,” he repeated. “Did you miss me?”

I needed to sniffle, but I forced myself to ignore it while I was at Peter’s bedside. Knowing he was fine had made me happy—and that’s what I wanted him to see.

“Of course,” I managed to chuckle. “I always miss you when you’re not there.”

When I had thought to say that sentence, it was simply to humor Peter’s anesthesia drunkenness. However, as the words came from my mouth, it struck me how true they were. Like a punch to the gut, I suddenly wondered what the fuck had been wrong with me for years. My husband—the man I loved above all things, who meant more to me than even myself—was lying in a hospital bed after having avoided potential death.

How could I be so frivolous?

Why had I acted as though life wasn’t so tenuous?

Did anyone understand that better than I?

“Aw,” Peter said, “you’re lying. You didn’t miss meeeeee. You’re just being nice. Don’t be nice to me just because I got cut up.”

I laughed and sniffled, not caring if Peter heard.

“I missed you very much, Peter,” I said. “I promise. I love you.”

Peter made a noise that was between a hoot and a bark.

“I loooooooooove yooooooooooou, tooooooooooo!” he exclaimed. “I love you so much.”