Thomas.
I stared at the last name printed beneath it. My mouth went dry. It couldn't be. There had to be a thousand men with that name in this state alone.
I pushed the door open.
When I lifted my eyes to the man in the bed.
I knew him the instant I looked up from the chart.
Fifty-six years hadn't erased that face. Thomas was thinner, paler, hollowed out by whatever was eating him from the inside, but those eyes were the same eyes that had begged me to stay when we were teenagers.
He smiled as if he'd been waiting for me.
I knew him the instant I looked up.
"Hello, Nancy," he said, as soft as a Sunday morning.
I couldn't speak for a moment. I just stood there with the blood pressure cuff in my hand, feeling my whole life catch up to me in one hospital room.
"Thomas," I finally managed. "My goodness. Thomas!"
***
After that, I found reasons to check on him every shift.
I couldn't speak for a moment.
My high school sweetheart told me he'd never been married either.
We laughed about our gray hair and our bad knees, and sometimes we didn't talk at all. We just sat together.
"You still take your coffee black?" he asked one afternoon.
"Still do."
"I knew it."
