I end the call and turn to find Lena already awake and watching me with concern.
"They can take Gordie at 6:30," I explain, already climbing out of bed. "We need to be there by 5.”
She glances at the clock and immediately pushes back the covers. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."
We move with urgent efficiency, brushing teeth and throwing on clothes, checking on Gordie with choreographed precision as if we've been sharing mornings for years instead of weeks. Lena gives him a shot of something like it’s no big deal and then showers my dog with kisses. I’m profoundly grateful for her silent understanding of the situation and the way she matches my pace without question.
"I texted LeMarcus," I tell her as we head for her car. "He'll meet us at the clinic around noon after the surgery."
She nods, sliding into the passenger seat this time. "Perfect. That should give us plenty of time to get ready for the wedding."
I start the car, then pause, turning to look at her. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, she's wearing yesterday's clothes, and there are pillow creases on her cheek. She looks exhausted, worried, and utterly beautiful.
"You really don't have to come to the wedding," I say. "After all this, I'd understand if you'd rather skip it."
She gives me a look that's equal parts exasperation and affection. "Alder Stag, I'm going to your brother's wedding. Now drive, or we're going to be late for Gordie's surgery."
I drive, trying to focus on the road rather than the strange, wonderful feeling expanding in my chest—a feeling that has nothing to do with relief about Gordie's care and everything to do with the woman beside me.
The woman who, against all probability and maybe good sense, has become essential to my life in ways I'm only beginning to understand.
CHAPTER 21
LENA
Over the past few hours,the waiting room chair has become a torture device. No matter how I shift, I can't find a comfortable position. At least there aren’t arms on it to dig into my thighs. But my back aches, my neck is stiff, and the endless loop of daytime television is steadily eroding my sanity.
Yet these physical discomforts are nothing compared to the weight of waiting. I've spent years on the other side of this equation—the professional behind the door, performing procedures while families wait in rooms exactly like this one. But being the person waiting is a new experience altogether, and it's giving me a fresh perspective on how my patients' families must feel.
Alder paces the waiting area, checking his phone obsessively as if willing it to ring with news. He's barely sat down since they took Gordie into surgery two hours ago. I watch him move, the coiled tension in his shoulders, the way he periodically runs both hands through his hair until it stands at alarming angles.
"Sit down," I say for the third time. "You're making me dizzy."
He glances at me, then drops heavily into the chair besidemine. "What's taking so long? They said two hours. It's been two hours and seven minutes."
I place my hand on his knee, which is bouncing rapidly. "Surgeries don't run on exact timetables. Dr. Wei will come out when she's finished. Gordie's in good hands."
He covers my hand with his own, squeezing with more pressure than he probably realizes. "I know. I just—" He exhales sharply. "I hate not being able to do anything."
"Yeah," I say softly. "I get that."
And I do. The helplessness of waiting is a uniquely miserable feeling, especially for someone like Alder, who's accustomed to solving problems through sheer physical will. Watching him navigate this vulnerability has revealed layers I hadn't fully appreciated before. The professional athlete, the charming brother, the revenge conspirator—all these versions of Alder Stag are now joined by this worried dog dad who spent the night whispering reassurances to his pet between fitful stretches of sleep.
I find myself unexpectedly drawn to this version. The realization hits me with startling clarity as I sit in this uncomfortable chair, surrounded by outdated magazines and the faint antiseptic smell: I care about this man. Not as part of our revenge plan, not as my roommate or the owner of the dog I've grown attached to, but as himself—as Alder.
The thought should frighten me, but after the past twenty-four hours, it simply feels like acknowledging something that's been true for a while now.
"Mr. Stag?" Dr. Wei appears in the doorway, still wearing her surgical mask. "Gordon’s surgery went well. We removed the infected teeth and drained the abscess. He's in recovery now."
Alder springs to his feet, pulling me up with him since he's still holding my hand. "Can we see him?"
"In a few minutes. He's still coming out of anesthesia, but his vitals are stable, and his prognosis is excellent."
The relief on Alder's face is so profound I can almost feel it radiating from him. He turns to me with a brilliant smile, making my chest ache.
"He's okay," he says as if I hadn't just heard the same news.
"He's okay," I confirm, returning his smile.
