She turned her face toward the window. It showed only black glass and her own dim reflection. “You know now.”
He did not answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice had gone quiet in a way she had never heard before.
“A doctor came to talk to me.” He looked down at his hands. “She asked if I knew about your condition.”
Maya waited.
“I didn’t.”
The silence stretched.
Hospital air always seemed too thin for difficult conversations. Too dry. Too exposed. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rolled past, rattling softly. An intercom called for a doctor on another floor. Life continued, indifferent.
Maya said, “I didn’t owe you my medical history.”
“No.” He stared at the floor, then finally looked at her. “You didn’t.”
“You married me for six months because your friend dared you to.”
His face changed at that. She saw the hit land.
