Branko went pale. Not from the accident. From what Natalia had just thought a second before speaking:
"Well, well. So he crashed while talking to his precious mistress. Ha. And then he says they're" just friends."Friends who make you wreck your car. I didn't know friendship was this dangerous. I hope Valeria has good insurance."
Branko opened and closed his mouth without knowing what to do. Or what to say. Because he could hear his wife's thoughts. Or he was hallucinating from the cerebral contusion. Or he'd gone insane.
All three options were horrifying.
"Are you okay?" Natalia asked out loud, with feigned concern. "You've gone white. Want me to call a doctor? Or would you rather I call Valeria? I'm sure she'd come running to wipe the sweat off your forehead. Now that's friendship."
"Take that, bitch,* she thought. *Now swallow that. And I hope your head hurts twice as much."
Branko looked at her. And for the first time in two years of marriage, he didn't know if he wanted to strangle her, kiss her, or lock her in a room just to keep listening to her mind.
He said nothing.
He just smiled.
A small smile, barely a movement of his lips.
And Natalia, seeing that smile, felt a chill run down her spine head to toe.
"Why is he smiling?* she thought, alarmed. *Does he enjoy being told about Valeria? Or is his head so messed up that any stimulus makes him happy? What a weird man. Oh God. I love him. I hate him. I love him. I don't know."
Branko heard every word.
And his smile grew wider.
"I don't want the divorce," he said out loud, with a calm that Natalia found profoundly unsettling.
"Excuse me?" she asked, blinking.
"I. Don't. Want. The divorce."
"Since when?"
"Since now."
Natalia looked at him as if he'd just said penguins could fly.
"You hit your head way too hard," she said. "I'm going to talk to the doctor."
She stood to leave, but Branko's voice stopped her.
"Natalia."
She turned.
Branko was looking at her with an intensity he'd never, ever directed at her before.
"I'm staying with you," he said. "I'm not signing anything. So get used to it."
"But what the hell?* Natalia thought, completely thrown. *Did this man hit his head and turn into an idiot, or did he get possessed? Where's the cold, calculating Branko who didn't even look at me to ask me to pass the salt? Who are you, and what have you done with my husband? I need an exorcist."
Out loud, Natalia just said:
"You're worse off than I thought. I'm calling the doctor."
And she walked out of the room with her heart pounding at a thousand beats per hour.
Inside the room, Branko was left alone. He brought his hand to the bandage. Closed his eyes.
He heard Natalia's footsteps fading away. And then, very faintly, he heard her thought, like a distant echo:
"Oh, Branko. If only you knew I asked for the divorce so I wouldn't die of love every time I see you with her. If only you knew."
Branko opened his eyes.
His smile, this time, was real.
"I already know," he whispered into the pillow. "I already know."
The door to room 412 flew open.
It wasn't a nurse. It wasn't a doctor. It was a slam with earthquake ambitions.
Vladimir Sitik entered first, in his tailored suit, his ebony cane (which he didn't need but used to impose), and his funeral face. Behind him, Ana Sitik, his wife, a handkerchief in her hand and her eyes swollen as if she'd already cried the Dead Sea dry.
"Son!" Ana exclaimed, launching herself at Branko with the agility of a rugby player. "Are you okay? Does anything hurt? Did they do the scans? Did you eat? Where's Natalia? How is it possible she isn't here?"
Branko, trapped between his mother's arms and the bandage on his head, rolled his eyes with a subtlety that had nothing subtle about it.
"Mom, I'm fine," he said, his voice flat. "It was just a bump."
"A bump?" Ana pulled back just an inch to examine the bruise. "Your head is bandaged! You could have a brain hemorrhage! You could've died!"
"But I didn't die."
"You could have!"
Vladimir, from the doorway, cleared his throat. He didn't hug his son. The Sitiks didn't hug. The Sitiks nodded at each other in business meetings.
"The other driver?" Vladimir asked, as if it were an insurance claim and not an accident.
"There was no other driver," Branko said. "I went off the road."
"You went off the road?" Vladimir frowned. "Why?"
Branko was about to answer, but Ana didn't let him.
"Because that woman doesn't take care of him," Ana said, the venom already loaded on her tongue. "Because a real wife would be here, by his side, suffering with him. Where is Natalia?"
"Mom, she went to talk to the doctor," Branko said, rubbing his temple. His head hurt. He wasn't sure if it was the concussion or his mother.
"The doctor?" Ana scoffed. "She should be here. With you. Taking care of you. She's your wife!"
"Sometimes wives talk to doctors," Branko said, with the patience of an ant. "It's not a crime."
"It's a lack of respect," Ana declared, crossing her arms. "I always knew. That woman doesn't love you. She never loved you. She's using you for the company and nothing else."
Branko didn't respond. Not because he agreed, but because he'd just remembered Natalia's words that morning: "Valeria's back. I don't want to be cheated on."
And then, as if fate were a bad joke, the door opened again.
Natalia walked in with the doctor. Dr. Mendez, a man in his fifties, with thick-framed glasses and the face of someone who'd seen too many things in the ER.
"The CT results look good," the doctor was saying, reading from a chart. "Just a minor contusion. I'd recommend complete rest for one week and—"
"How is that woman taking care of my son?" Ana interrupted, springing to her feet like a jack-in-the-box.
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