The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 459

He didn't look at Piper. He simply turned and walked in the opposite direction, his voice as cold as thin ice. "Go home. I'm leaving too."

Piper stood frozen, her hand still raised in a grasping motion, her fingers curling emptily in the air.

She looked down at her rejected hand and didn't follow him. Instead, she lifted her arm, roughly wiping her eyes with her soaked sleeve.

The lake water on the fabric mixed with her tears, smearing a messy streak across her face.

*

Garrison didn't take Sloane to the hospital.

When the car pulled up to his apartment building, the rain had stopped. The puddles on the ground reflected the streetlights like a scatter of broken glass.

He cut the engine and glanced over at Sloane in the passenger seat. She was bundled in his black coat, her soaked hair plastered to her cheeks. Her lips still held a purplish tint, but her breathing had steadied. He reached out to feel her forehead; she didn't have a fever, but her skin was damp and cold, like a piece of marble fresh from a freezer.

"The hospital is... a bit complicated right now."

Ever since Rosemary Hayes had caused that massive scene in the ward, Sloane had become an open secret. Garrison didn't dare risk exposing her again.

He pulled his hand back and unbuckled his seatbelt. His voice was low, as if explaining it to her while simultaneously justifying the decision to himself. "You'll stay at my place for a few nights so I can keep an eye on you. Once I'm sure you're fine, you can go back."

Sloane leaned against the seat, her entire body so weak she barely had the strength to lift an arm.

"I'm fine now. You should just take me home," she murmured, her voice limp and entirely unconvincing.

Sloane didn't argue.

She was drenched to the bone, shivering so violently her joints ached. If she didn't change soon, hypothermia would take half her life before pulmonary edema even had a chance to flare up.

When she emerged from the bathroom, she was swallowed up by the navy-blue cotton robe Garrison had set out for her. The sleeves hung well past her fingertips, forcing her to roll them up several times just to free her wrists.

She padded into the living room. Garrison had already showered in the second bathroom. He was dressed in a dark gray long-sleeved shirt, his hair still damp, with a few stray strands falling across his forehead.

He stood by the sofa, a large silver medical case open at his feet. He was pulling out supplies—a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a pulse oximeter, a portable ECG monitor, a bottle of medication she didn't recognize, and an unopened IV kit.

"Lie down." He didn't even look up, merely gesturing toward the sofa with his chin.