Chapter 13

Hannah. Noah didn’t return all day or night; not that I expected otherwise. I pictured him sleeping next to Zoe in the hospital, holding her hand. Something he couldn’t be bothered to do for me.

The next morning, I awoke with renewed purpose. My headache subsided, and a night in bed gave me time to think—about everything: White Rabbit, our family doctor; Noah and Zoe. Most importantly, I needed to resolve the diet pill issue without Noah’s help. Someone clearly didn’t want me pregnant with Noah’s baby, and it seemed our family physician was involved.

But as I entered the kitchen to make coffee and toast, I ran into Noah. He sat at the island, disheveled in yesterday’s clothes, eating cereal.

“Morning,” I said gruffly, brushing past him in my nightgown, avoiding eye contact. I made the coffee, deliberately swaying my hips. My sheer, lacy nightgown was a deliberate provocation; I knew Noah still desired me, physically at least. Let him want it. He wasn’t getting it.

Noah cleared his throat. “Morning. Making coffee?”

“What does it look like?”

“Hannah, do you really have to—” He started, then stopped as I glared at him. He raised a finger, then shook his head, scraping his spoon forcefully through his cereal.

Satisfied, I watched the coffee brew. “So,” I said, gripping the counter until my knuckles whitened, “how was your girlfriend?”

A clatter—Noah dropped his spoon. “Dammit, Hannah,” he growled. “It’s not like that.”

I shrugged. “I was just asking a question.”

Silence, broken only by the coffee maker. I watched my cup fill, then the toaster popped. Creamer in my coffee, jam on my toast. I ignored Noah, avoiding his gaze. He remained silent until, as I passed him with my breakfast, he grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t make me bite you again,” I growled, yanking my arm away.

Just as I reached the kitchen door, Noah stopped me. “What is your problem, Hannah?”

I almost laughed. Turning slowly, I leveled him with a steely gaze. “Is that really a question?”

He shrugged. “Maybe we wouldn’t have so many issues if you communicated your feelings. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Ha! That’s rich,” I retorted. “Since when do you want me to express my feelings? Last time I checked, you preferred I remain quiet.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed. “Just tell me what it is, Hannah.”

“If I have to tell you, you’re an even bigger idiot than I thought.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder and started to leave. But his throat clearing stopped me again.

“If this is about Zoe…”

“Yes, it’s about Zoe, you fool!” I whirled around, nearly spilling my coffee. I started to lecture him, then stopped. It wasn’t worth it; my words would fall on deaf ears.

“You know what?” I took a deep breath, plastered on my practiced smile. “Nevermind. I’m not going to explain anything. It’s common sense.”

Noah sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look,” he said. “You bumped your head. Yes, I was worried, but I ensured you’d be fine. Zoe, however, was in the hospital with a burst appendix. People die from that.”

“People die from ‘bumped heads,’ Noah,” I growled. “And a burst appendix is treatable. You’d think knowing she was in the hospital and being cared for would have been enough for you to stay with your wife.”

Silence. I watched his jaw clench and unclench—a gesture I once found charming, now merely annoying.

Finally, he muttered, “I have our family doctor on speed dial. I knew you were cared for, Hannah. I wouldn’t have left otherwise.”

My scoff was uncontainable. “Yeah, ‘cared for.’ Sure.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrugged. “I find it hard to feel ‘cared for’ when I’ve discovered our ‘trusted’ doctor spread misinformation about my body.”

Noah opened his mouth to retort, then closed it and nodded stiffly. Even he couldn’t argue with that. “Well, the doctor is on vacation,” he said. “One of his nurses came. So you don’t have to worry.”

“Mm.” I chewed my cheek. “Where did you find that doctor, anyway? He seems incompetent.”

“He was my family doctor,” Noah replied. “I’ve known him for years. My father insisted we hire him when we bought this house.”

“I see.” So Noah’s father, Marcus, hired our sham of a doctor. Interesting. I’d investigate later.

I nodded and turned toward my bedroom. Again, Noah’s voice stopped me.

“Hannah,” he called. “Come back.”

For a moment, my heart ached. I turned, wondering if he’d apologize, explain, admit he was wrong. But no. It was never that. I was foolish.

“Let’s go to Zoe’s house tonight,” he said, scooping up more cereal. “We should be there for her when she gets home from the hospital.”

Not interesting at all.