Chapter 5

Randy's Pov

The fluorescent lights above me buzzed in that annoying way hospital lights always do. I sat on the edge of the examination bed, my shoulder throbbing with each heartbeat as the doctor wrapped the final layer of the brace around my arm.

"You're lucky it's not dislocated," the doctor said, securing the velcro straps. "But you've got a pretty nasty sprain here. The ligaments are stretched, and there's some inflammation. You'll need to keep this brace on for at least two weeks, maybe three."

"Thanks, doc," I replied, my voice coming out flatter than I intended.

"I'm prescribing some pain medication and anti-inflammatories," he continued, scribbling on his prescription pad. "Ice it for fifteen minutes every few hours, and for God's sake, don't try to lift anything heavy. Rest is crucial for healing."

I nodded, taking the prescription from his hand. The paper felt thin between my fingers as I folded it and shoved it into my pocket. The doctor gave me one last concerned look before leaving the examination room, his white coat disappearing through the doorway.

As I slid off the bed, a sharp pain shot through my shoulder, making me wince. I steadied myself against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath. The antiseptic smell of the hospital filled my nostrils, mixing with something else, something that reminded me of sickness and waiting.

I walked out into the hallway, my footsteps echoing against the linoleum floor. The corridor stretched out in front of me, painted in that institutional beige color that all hospitals seemed to favor. My good arm hung at my side while the injured one sat stiff in the brace, the pressure both comforting and restricting at the same time.

As I moved down the hall, passing room after room, I heard voices drifting from somewhere ahead. Female voices, chatting casually.

Did you see the lady in the VIP section?" one voice said.

I slowed my pace, not intentionally eavesdropping, but the hallway was quiet enough that their conversation carried easily.

"Oh my God, yes," another voice replied. "She booked the entire ward. The whole thing. Just for her boyfriend."

My feet stopped moving. I stood there, a few meters away from where two nurses were standing near a door marked with a gold plaque that read "VIP Section."

"That must have cost a fortune," the first nurse said.

"I know, right? And you know what the crazy part is?" the second nurse continued, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow still reached my ears. "His injury is just a little bruise on his wrist. I saw it when they were doing the examination. Barely even swollen."

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. But she's in there acting like he's on his deathbed or something. She wouldn't leave his side, kept asking if he needed anything, if he was comfortable, if the pillows were soft enough."

A bitter taste filled my mouth.

"That man is so lucky," the first nurse said with a sigh. "To have a woman love him that much, show him that kind of loyalty? That's rare. That's really rare."

"Tell me about it," her colleague agreed. "My boyfriend wouldn't even drive me to the hospital when I had food poisoning last month. I had to take an Uber."

My heart had started beating faster, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach. I told myself it couldn't be. It couldn't be Clara they were talking about. But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying to myself.

I forced my legs to move, walking past the nurses who were too engrossed in their conversation to notice me. The VIP section door was slightly ajar, and as I approached, I could see through the gap.

The room inside was nothing like the standard examination room I had just left. This was more like a hotel suite. Soft lighting, expensive looking furniture, a massive bed in the center with pristine white sheets that probably had a thread count higher than my entire wardrobe's worth.

And there, sitting on the edge of that bed, was Clara.

Her hand rested gently on Kyle's wrist. His entire forearm was wrapped in bandages, the white gauze wound around and around like he had suffered some catastrophic injury. He reclined against a mountain of pillows, and even from where I stood, I could see the satisfied smirk on his face.

Clara leaned in close to him, her face showing more concern than I had seen her display in years. Her thumb moved in small circles on the back of his hand, a gesture of comfort and care.

My shoulder throbbed again, but this pain was different. It started in my chest and radiated outward, making my breath catch.

This was what those nurses had been talking about. This was the woman showing love and loyalty to her man. Not to her husband who had thrown himself in front of a ball to protect her, who now stood in a hallway with an actual injury that required actual medical attention. No, she was here, in a room that probably cost more than most people's monthly salary, tending to a bruise.

This was the woman I'd spent five years caring for. The woman I'd given up my career for. The woman I'd stayed up countless nights researching medication for, sacrificing my health and my dreams so she could live without pain. And here she was, in a private hospital ward that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, doting on a man who had a bruise on his wrist.

A bruise he'd gotten by faking an injury to make me look bad.

While I stood in the hallway with an actual injury, wearing a hand brace, having been told to take a taxi home by the very woman who was now playing nurse to her ex-boyfriend.

I didn't realize I'd been standing there for so long until the door suddenly swung open. Clara walked out, her phone in her hand, her attention fixed on the screen. She nearly walked right into me before she looked up, her eyes widening slightly in surprise.

"Randy?" she said, her voice carrying a note of confusion. "What are you doing here?"

I gestured to the brace on my shoulder, the movement sending a sharp spike of pain through my arm that I tried not to show on my face. "You told me to go to the hospital. Remember?"

"Oh," she said, her eyes flicking briefly to my shoulder before returning to my face. "Right. So why didn't you go home last night?"

The question hit me like a slap. I stared at her, trying to process what she'd just said. Last night. She was asking me why I didn't go home last night. As if I'd been out partying or staying at a friend's house, instead of sitting in an emergency room for hours waiting to be seen.

"I was here," I said slowly, each word deliberate. "At the hospital. Where you told me to go."

Clara's forehead creased slightly, that little line appearing between her eyebrows that usually meant she was annoyed. "It doesn't take all night to go to the hospital, Randy. What, you couldn't just get checked out and come home?"

"I had to wait," I replied, my voice still calm despite the anger beginning to simmer beneath the surface. "The ER was busy. I didn't get seen until late, and by the time they finished examining me and fitting this brace, it was already past midnight."

"So you're telling me you spent the whole night here because of that?" She gestured vaguely at my shoulder, her tone dismissive.

"Yes, Clara. Because of this injury that I got protecting you from getting hit in the head by a tennis ball."

She rolled her eyes, actually rolled her eyes, and let out a small huff of breath. "Is this because I asked you to take a taxi here by yourself? Are you seriously acting out right now?"

Acting out. The words echoed in my head, bouncing around like a rubber ball in an empty room. I'd spent the night in pain, sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs, filling out paperwork with one hand while my shoulder throbbed, and she thought I was acting out.

"How can you say that?" I asked, my voice rising slightly despite my efforts to keep it level. "Clara, I'm injured. Look at me." I moved my arm slightly, the brace clearly visible against my shirt. "This isn't acting out. This is an actual injury that required actual medical attention."

"And you got medical attention," she said, her voice taking on that impatient edge it always did when she thought I was being unreasonable. "So I don't understand what the problem is."

"The problem?" I repeated, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice. I gestured towards the VIP ward behind her. "The problem is that you booked an entire private ward for Kyle because he has a bruise on his wrist. A bruise, Clara. Meanwhile, I have an actual shoulder injury, and you told me to take a taxi and deal with it myself."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you seriously comparing yourself to Kyle right now?"

"I'm not comparing anything. I'm asking you how you can ignore my injury while you spend God knows how much money booking out a whole ward for someone who barely has a scratch."

"Kyle's injury could have been serious," Clara said, her voice defensive. "The doctor needed to examine him properly to make sure there was no internal damage. And besides, he was in pain. Real pain, Randy. Not just some bruise you're trying to exaggerate to get my attention."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. "Exaggerate? Clara, I have a brace on my shoulder. The doctor told me it's going to take two weeks to heal. How is that exaggerating?"

"You know what I mean," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "You always do this. Whenever it has to fo with Kyle, you suddenly need all this attention and sympathy. It's exhausting, Randy."

"I saved you from getting hit in the head," I said, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "That's why I'm injured. Because I put myself between you and that ball."

"And I appreciate that," she said, though her tone suggested otherwise. "But that doesn't mean you get to act like a victim every time something doesn't go your way. Kyle was really hurt, and he needed me."

"He has a bruise, Clara. A bruise that he got by throwing himself on the ground and pretending I pushed him."

Her face hardened. "Are you calling Kyle a liar?"

"I'm saying what I saw. He wasn't anywhere near me when he fell. He did that to himself to make me look bad, and it worked."

"Oh my God," Clara said, her voice rising in frustration. "Do you hear yourself right now? You're making up conspiracy theories because you can't handle the fact that you actually hurt someone. Kyle is lying in that hospital bed because of you, and instead of apologizing, you're standing here trying to guilt trip me."