My throat closes around the words. “Hi.”
Emily studies my face. “You cried.”
“No,” I say, wiping beneath one eye.
“Liar,” she murmurs.
“You’re feeling better, apparently,” I tell her.
“Knox said I can blame the drugs for anything I say.”
“Convenient,” I say, pulling a chair closer to the bed.
Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then she reaches for my hand, and I take it.
“You stayed,” she says.
“Of course I did.”
Her fingers curl around mine. “You kept talking.”
“You asked if you were dying,” I remind her.
“I remember.”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I admit.
Her grip tightens. “You were scared.”
“Yes.”
Surprise flickers across her face, and it bothers me.
“You never look scared,” she says.
I think about what Frankie told me. Strong doesn’t mean nobody sees.
“I was terrified,” I tell her.
Emily watches me carefully. “I thought if you were calm, I should be too.”
Shit, that’s the danger of pretending well enough.
“I wasn’t calm,” I say. “I was doing the next thing. Pressure, then questions.”
“Yellow,” she says.
I smile. “Terrible color.”
“You said it was your favorite,” she reminds me.
“I lied.”
A weak laugh slips out of her, and it’s so good to hear that my chest aches.
She closes her eyes for a few seconds, then opens them again. “Falcon wasn’t there.”
“No,” I say quietly.