Chapter 2 of After My Ex Left Me Before Surgery, I Ruined His Engagement

The peonies appeared again the next morning.

I woke to pale light through the hospital blinds and there they were on the windowsill. Fresh ones. White petals edged in the softest pink, like something blushing.

I stared at them. My parents' funeral had been drowning in peonies. I'd hated them for ten years.

I should've called the nurse. Had them removed.

I didn't move.

'You know,' a voice said through the wall, 'most people say thank you when someone sends flowers.'

I turned my head toward the sound. The voice was male. Warm. Amused.

'Most people,' I said to the wall, 'include a card.'

A laugh. Low and easy. 'Fair point.'

Silence settled. I waited.

'Gabriel Medina,' the voice said. 'Next door. Fractured leg. Very dramatic racing accident. I'd tell you the whole story but it makes me sound reckless.'

'Astrid Hayes,' I said. 'Also leg. Less dramatic. More surgical.'

'I know.'

I blinked. 'You know?'

'I asked the nurse. She said you were recovering alone. That seemed wrong.'

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

'Do you play chess?' he asked.

I looked at the ceiling. 'Yes.'

'Good. I'll see you in an hour.'

Footsteps. A door closing. Then quiet.

I looked back at the peonies. They sat there, unbothered, taking up space.

Gabriel Medina appeared in my doorway exactly one hour later. He was tall, dark-haired, leaning on a single crutch with the kind of ease that suggested he didn't actually need it. He wore gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He smiled like we were old friends.

'You're staring,' he said.

'You don't look like someone recovering from a fractured leg.'

'You don't look like someone who just had major surgery.' He tilted his head. 'But here we are.'

He had a chessboard under his arm. Travel-sized. Magnetic pieces.

I sat up slowly, adjusting the pillow behind me. 'You brought your own board.'

'Hospital doesn't have one. I checked.' He pulled the chair closer and set the board on the rolling table between us. 'White or black?'

'Black.'

'Smart.' He turned the board and started setting up the pieces. His hands moved quickly. Confident. 'I always take white. I like moving first.'

'I like making people commit before I respond.'

He looked up at me then. Really looked. His eyes were dark, sharp, like he was reading something I hadn't written yet.

'Yeah,' he said quietly. 'I bet you do.'

We played.

Gabriel opened with a standard king's pawn. I mirrored him. He developed his knight. I castled early. He didn't rush. Every move was deliberate, like he was building something I couldn't see yet.

By the tenth move, I realized he'd sacrificed a bishop for positioning. By the fifteenth, I understood he'd been planning it from the start.

'You play like someone who thinks twenty moves ahead,' I said.

'I play like someone who's willing to lose something now to win later.' He moved his rook. 'Your turn.'

I studied the board. He'd left an opening. Too obvious. I didn't take it.

'You don't trust easy wins,' he observed.

'Easy wins are usually traps.'

He smiled. 'You'd be good at poker.'

We played for an hour. He won. Barely.

'Rematch tomorrow?' he asked, folding the board.

'Maybe.'

'I'll bring coffee.'

'I don't drink coffee.'

'Tea, then. Ginger. I saw the box on your table.'

I looked at him. At this man who noticed things. Who sent peonies without cards. Who showed up with a chessboard like we'd planned this.

'Why are you doing this?' I asked.

He stood, adjusting the crutch under his arm. 'Because you're recovering alone. And nobody should do that.'

He left before I could respond.

The peonies kept coming.

Every morning. Same time. White and pink. No card.

I watched them. On the second morning, I flinched when the nurse set them down. On the third morning, I didn't.

Gabriel and I played chess every afternoon. In the sunlit common area with wide windows and uncomfortable plastic chairs. He brought ginger tea in a thermos. I brought my stubbornness.

He never mentioned my leg. Never asked about the surgery or the prognosis or whether I was scared. He just played chess and told me terrible jokes and argued about whether rooks were underrated.

'They are,' I said, moving mine into position.

'Bishops are more elegant.'

'Elegance doesn't win games. Strategy does.'

He looked at me across the board. 'You really believe that.'

'I really do.'

He smiled. It wasn't the easy, charming smile he gave the nurses. It was smaller. Private.

'Good,' he said.

On the fourth morning, I woke to peonies on the windowsill. The light caught them just right, turning the white petals gold at the edges.

I reached out. My hand hovered over the vase.

I was going to move them. Push them to the side. Out of the light.

I paused.

Then I set them back. Right where they were.