“No. She just said she couldn’t stay in this building another minute.”
Melissa gently squeezed my shoulder, her grip slightly too tight.
“Don’t worry about hospital staffing right now, honey,” she said. “You just need to rest.”
“But she said something to me right before I went under,” I insisted.
“What did she say?” Melissa asked quickly.
Her voice was steady, but her eyes looked deeply panicked.
“Nothing,” I muttered, sensing the tension. “Must have been the anesthesia talking.”
For the next few days, I recovered in our guest bedroom downstairs.
Melissa was constantly hovering over me, acting overly sweet.
“You are pushing yourself too hard,” she said on Thursday afternoon. “Stay in bed.”
“I need to stretch my legs,” I argued. “I can’t just lie here forever.”
“You need to let me take care of you,” she said firmly.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Is everything okay with the house and finances while I’m off work?”
“Of course,” she smiled, but her eyes darted toward the bedroom door. “Stop stressing.”
“I feel like you are hiding something from me,” I said directly.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Melissa scoffed. “I am just worried about your stitches tearing.”
“You’ve been acting extremely nervous ever since I woke up,” I pushed.
