He didn’t answer.
He just pulled me against his chest and held on, and I could feel his heart pounding under my ear, much too fast.
I chalked it up to nerves.
I fell asleep thinking, He’s afraid something will go wrong on the table. That’s all. That’s all it is.
On the morning of the procedure, the nurses guided me onto a gurney in the operating room.
It was cold. Everything smelled like metal and alcohol. I could hear people moving around me, the clink of instruments, a machine somewhere making a slow, steady beep.
Nigel squeezed my hand.
“You still have time to back out,” he said softly.
“I won’t,” I replied.
I turned my face toward his voice.
“If this works,” I said, “I want you to be the first thing I see.”
I heard his breath catch. Like I’d hit him.
