Chapter 7 Pretending to Forget, Planning to Win

The hospital room had changed overnight. Instead of just plain walls and lonely beeping machines, now there were flower vases everywhere-big fancy ones from Carlos's company, kind ones from foundation board members, and simple wildflowers from Sofia with a note that just said: We'll talk soon.

Among all the flowers, Alejandro's single orchid stayed closest to my bed.

I was sitting up when he came in, with afternoon sunlight streaming through the half-open blinds. The doctors had taken away most of the machines, saying I was getting better "surprisingly fast." Only the IV stayed in my arm, giving me one last round of medicine.

"You look better today," Alejandro said, stopping at the doorway.

I fixed my hair without thinking. "I got the nurse to help me wash it. It's amazing how clean hair can make you feel better."

"May I?" he asked, pointing to the chair next to my bed.

I nodded, watching as he put down his folder and drawing tube. He looked different today-more relaxed in dark jeans and a simple gray sweater that made his eyes look almost silver in the slanting light.

"No Carlos?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"Board meeting. He sends his most devoted regrets." I couldn't hide the bitterness in my voice.

"And Daniela?"

"Shopping for 'supplies' for when I come home tomorrow." I made quote marks with my fingers. "She says my home doesn't have the right things for someone who's sick."

Alejandro's mouth made a small smile. "And how do you feel about your... companion?"

"About as comfortable as a cat in water." I sighed. "But I'll manage."

He looked at me thoughtfully. "You're very good at that, aren't you? Managing?"

"It's what I do." I picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "What brings you here? More design changes?"

Alejandro reached into his bag. "Actually, I brought you something."

He handed me a leather journal, its cover soft under my fingers. When I opened it, blank cream-colored pages waited to be filled.

"A journal?" I asked, sounding confused.

"For when you're ready to write your truth," he said simply.

I touched the blank pages, strangely moved by the gift. "What makes you think I have a truth to write?"

"Everyone does." His eyes met mine. "Especially those who've become good at hiding it."

His words were too right to ignore. I closed the journal, holding it like it could save me. "Thank you. But I'm not much of a writer."

"It's not about being good," Alejandro leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "It's about being honest. Sometimes we need to see our thoughts outside ourselves to know how powerful they are."

"You sound like you've done this before."

"After Laura died," he admitted. "Words were the only thing that kept me sane. Everything I couldn't say out loud, I wrote down. Over time, the journal became a way back to living."

"And did you? Get back to living?" I asked softly.

His face grew thoughtful. "I'm still on that path. Some days I'm further along than others."

The raw honesty in his voice touched something inside me that had been sleeping for a long time. How many years had it been since I'd had a talk this real, this open?

"The doctor said I should try walking today," I said, changing the subject before emotion could overwhelm me. "Would you... would you mind helping me? I don't trust the nurses not to tell Carlos about my progress before I'm ready."

Understanding showed in his eyes. "You want to control when he knows you're getting better."

I nodded, relieved that he understood so easily.

"Then let's get you on your feet, shall we?" Alejandro stood, offering his hands.

I pushed the blankets aside, suddenly feeling self-conscious in the thin hospital gown. "I should warn you, I'm not very steady."

"That's why I'm here." His voice was quietly confident. "Take your time."

I put my hands in his, surprised by how warm they were. With careful movements, he helped me turn until my feet touched the cold floor. Pain shot through my stomach, but I clenched my teeth, determined to stand.

"Easy," he said softly. "There's no rush." The gentle sound of his voice seemed to wrap around me like a blanket.

"I need to do this," I insisted. "I need to know I can."

He nodded, understanding the determination in my words. Slowly, he supported my weight as I rose from the bed, my legs shaking with the effort.

"You're doing it," he encouraged as I found my balance. "How does it feel?"

"Like I'm ninety years old," I made a face. "But I'm standing."

His hands stayed steady at my elbows. "Small victories, Emily. Sometimes they're the ones that matter most."

I took a careful step, then another. Our bodies moved carefully together, his strength making up for my weakness. When my legs almost gave out, his arm slipped around my waist, holding me up. The fabric of his sweater brushed against my arm, soft and reassuring.

"I've got you," he said, his voice low near my ear.

The contact sent warmth flowing through me, not just physical support but something deeper, more basic. Our eyes met, and for a breathless moment, time stopped. His fingers tightened slightly at my waist, and I found myself leaning into his strength rather than away from it.

Alejandro was the first to break the spell, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should try the garden? The fresh air might be good for you."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. He helped me into a robe, carefully placing it over my shoulders, his movements respectful yet personal. This mix of care and closeness stirred feelings I thought had been buried under the ruins of my marriage.

"The wheelchair is the rule until we reach the elevator," he explained, helping me sit in the chair a nurse had left earlier. "Hospital rules."

As he pushed me through the hallways, past nurses' stations and visiting families, a strange feeling of freedom washed over me. For the first time in days, maybe years, I felt safe.

The hospital garden was a small peaceful place between buildings, with winding paths and benches placed among flowering plants and small trees. The leaves rustled gently in the afternoon breeze. Alejandro guided the wheelchair to a quiet corner before offering his hand again.

"Ready to try on your own?"

I nodded, reaching for him. This time when our fingers touched, I didn't pull away from the electric feeling that passed between us. His eyebrows went up slightly, but he said nothing, simply supporting me as I stood.

We walked slowly along the gravel path, the small stones crunching under our feet. My arm was linked through his for support. The afternoon sun warmed my face, and I tilted it upward, enjoying the feeling after days under harsh hospital lights.

"You look happy," Alejandro said.

"I feel alive," I answered honestly. "It's been... a while."

He guided me to a bench partly hidden by a flowering hibiscus. "Can I ask you something personal?"

I sat beside him, our shoulders almost touching. "After pulling me from a wrecked car and sitting by my hospital bed, I think we've moved past being formal."

His smile was short but real. "Fair enough. Emily, what happened before the accident? You weren't just driving in a storm. You were running from something."

The directness of his question caught me by surprise. I stared at my hands, twisted in my lap, thinking about how much to tell.

"You don't have to tell me," he added softly. "But sometimes a stranger is easier to talk to than those closest to us."

"That's the problem," I whispered. "The ones closest to me are the ones I'm running from."

Understanding showed in his eyes. "Your husband."

I nodded, unable to say more. How could I explain the years of subtle undermining, the slow wearing away of my confidence, the careful cutting off from friends and family? How Carlos had systematically made me believe that his anger was my fault, his criticism was care, his control was protection?

"My marriage isn't what people think," I said finally. "It's not what I thought, either, until recently."

"And the accident?"

"A moment of clarity." I turned to face him fully. "I discovered something I couldn't un-see, couldn't make excuses for. So I drove, with no direction, just... needing to be anywhere else."

Alejandro was quiet for a long moment, his face thoughtful. When he spoke, his words had no judgment.

"I don't know your story, Emily. But I know when someone is just surviving instead of living."

Tears stung behind my eyes. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Because I see the same look in my mirror every morning." His voice was gentle. "You build a life around not having pain rather than having joy. You measure success by how well you keep up the act."

The simple truth of his words broke something loose inside me, a dam holding back years of unspoken truth.

"I don't even know who I am anymore," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "The real me disappeared so slowly I didn't notice until she was gone."

"She's not gone," Alejandro said with quiet certainty. "She's right here, finding her strength again." His hand covered mine on the bench between us. "The woman who criticized my building designs without hesitation? Who's planning a children's hospital despite her own pain? Who's standing up today when doctors thought she'd need another day in bed? That's the real Emily."

His belief in men, a version of myself I'd almost forgotten, was overwhelming. I turned my hand under his, our palms meeting, fingers intertwining with a closeness that should have scared me but instead felt like coming home.

"Thank you," I whispered. "For seeing me."

"It's not hard to see what shines so brightly," he replied, his voice husky.

The moment stretched between us, filled with possibilities I wasn't ready to name. In the gentle afternoon light, with the smell of flowers around us and Alejandro's hand warm in mine, I glimpsed a future I'd stopped believing could exist-one where I wasn't merely surviving but truly alive. Somewhere nearby, a bird began to sing, its clear notes cutting through the hospital sounds in the distance.

"Emily?" His voice had softened. "Can I ask you something else?"

I nodded, my heart beating fast with hope and fear.

"When you're ready, truly ready, will you let me help you? Whatever you need... a friend, an ally, just someone to listen..."

The offer hung between us, sincere and without pressure. It was the possibility of choice, of control-that he was offering, not solutions or rescue.

"I'd like that," I finally managed to say. "A friend."

His smile reached his eyes, making little lines at the corners in a way that made my heart skip. "Then friends we shall be. Starting with getting you back on your feet, literally and figuratively."

He stood, offering his arm once more. As I took it, rising to stand beside him, our bodies lined up naturally, shoulders touching, steps matching. We began a slow walk around the garden, my strength growing with each step.

"Tell me about your journal," I said. "What did you write that helped you find your way back?"

"The truth, even when it was ugly. Especially when it was ugly." His voice grew thoughtful. "I wrote about anger-at God, at the drunk driver who killed Laura, at myself for not being in the car with her. I wrote about feeling guilty for still breathing when she couldn't. And eventually, I wrote about hope."

"Hope," I repeated, the word feeling strange on my tongue. "I'm not sure I remember what that feels like."

"It's like when we build the foundation of a building," he said, squeezing my hand gently. "Most people can't see it, but it's essential for everything that comes after. You build it slowly, carefully, one small piece at a time."

We had reached a small fountain, water flowing over smooth stones with a gentle, musical sound.

"You give good comparisons, architect," I teased lightly, surprising myself with the playful tone.

His laugh was genuine. "Occupational hazard. Everything becomes a building comparison eventually."

"And what would you call this?" I gestured between us. "In building terms."

"A bridge," he answered without hesitation. "Strong but flexible. Made to connect without trapping."

The poetry of his answer caught me by surprise. I turned to face him fully, my hand still resting on his arm for support.

"You're not what I expected, Alejandro Vega."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know." I shook my head. "Not someone who pulls strangers from car wrecks and sits with them through the night. Not someone who brings orchids instead of roses. Not someone who sees through walls I spent years building."

Something changed in his face, a vulnerability he hadn't shown before. "Maybe we recognize in others what we know in ourselves."

Before I could respond, movement at the garden entrance caught my attention. My blood turned cold as Daniela appeared, her calculating eyes scanning the garden before landing on us, on my hand resting on Alejandro's arm, on our bodies standing close together, on the closeness clearly shown in how we stood.

Her eyes narrowed, lips curving into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. With deliberate steps, she started toward us, her designer purse and shopping bags swinging from her wrists like weapons. Her heels clicked sharply against the path, a sound like a countdown.

"Emily!" she called, her voice carrying across the garden. "What a surprise to find you out of bed. And with such... attentive company."

Alejandro's body tensed beside mine, his hand covering mine protectively where it rested on his arm.

"Breathe," he murmured, for my ears alone. "Remember who you are."

As Daniela approached, her predatory smile widening, I straightened my back and met her gaze directly. The journal Alejandro had given me felt like a good luck charm in my pocket, a promise of truth waiting to be written.

And in that moment, I knew exactly what the first page would say.