by Melissa Tagg
“What?”
“The meds, Randi,” Brad said. “Mixed with the pain, he probably doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Drive faster.” Oh, why’d he have to climb that tree? It was a miracle he hadn’t been hurt worse. “I’m a horrible wife, Walsh.”
“Pretend wife. And why would you think this is your fault? If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine and Liv’s. We should have stopped him when he asked us to time his climb.”
She shook her head. “I know the kind of stunts he pulls. I could’ve talked him out of it. I should’ve been there.”
Instead of chasing after Matthew and almost—
Oh, Lord, help me. She had almost told him everything. Worse, had almost kissed him. She could feel the flush taking over her face even now. Horror and humiliation cavorted in a frenzied mental dance. “I could just die.”
“Say what?” Brad veered his vehicle onto Main Avenue of the small mountain town. The hospital there was small, but it was closer than Asheville’s suburbs, and they’d get faster service.
“Nothing.” She couldn’t worry about Matthew now. Not with Blaze still mumbling in the back seat, face white.
“Nothing I can do now,” Blaze murmured. “Too late.”
“He’s really out of it.” She exhaled. “Are you sure it’s just a broken arm? It looked so mangled. And what if he’s got internal injuries?”
“I really think it was a clean break.” Brad’s voice softened. “It’s nice of you to play the concerned wife, but truly, I think he’ll be okay. And look, here’s the hospital.”
He pulled into the circle drive. Miranda shot out of the car the minute he shifted into Park. She ducked in the back seat. “Blaze, honey, it’s time to go into the hospital. Come on.”
“You called me honey,” he slurred.
The doctor might have to pump his stomach in addition to setting his arm. How many pills had Liv given him? She wove her arm through Blaze’s good arm, patting his shoulder with her other hand. “Let’s get inside.”
Footsteps padded on pavement behind her. Brad most likely—maybe Matthew and Liv, too. But she was focused on getting Blaze through the revolving door, into the emergency room. The receptionist was blessedly free, the waiting room, smelling of bleach and potpourri, empty of all but one other cluster of people.
Within minutes a nurse took Blaze back. The receptionist handed Miranda a clipboard and paperwork with a crooked smile that spoke recognition.
Yes, I’m Randi Woodruff. But please, not now. Miranda joined the others in the waiting area.
“If pacing was an Olympic sport, you’d win gold, Miranda.” Matthew rose from his vinyl chair. “He’s going to be just fine.”
She couldn’t look at him. Didn’t have words, either. Not after . . . She turned to the window.
“Listen,” Matthew said, “I missed a few calls but can’t get good reception in here. I’m going to step outside to catch up on my voice mails.”
She waited until the whir of the revolving door promised Matthew’s absence and dropped into the seat next to Brad. “Where’s Liv?”
“Same as Knox, on her phone. Checking in on Open Arms.” He poked her arm. “So, you want to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” She pulled her flannel jacket tight around her, the waiting room’s warmth no match for the blizzard of worries whirling in her. She fiddled with her hands.
“Why you and Knox are acting as awkward around each other as a couple of teens on their first date.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Across the room, a nurse called a name, and the other waiting room occupants rose to follow her down the corridor. The receptionist chattered away on the phone.
Brad shrugged, picked the clipboard up from the end table. “Fine. Let’s get the paperwork filled out.”
“Sorry I snapped at you.”
“You’re worried. I get it. Any clue what Blaze’s middle name is?”
She pulled the clipboard from Brad’s hands and slipped the pencil from the clip. “Lucas. Blake Lucas Hunziker.”
She scanned the cover sheet. They’d swiped Blaze’s wallet before he’d gone back, so they could rifle through it, fill in his birth date, maybe even find a health insurance card.
“What should I put for his address? Mine or the one on his license?”
“The one on his license. They’ll want a copy of his license, so they should probably match.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Oh well. Hopefully the hospital personnel wouldn’t ask questions.
She looked farther down the sheet. Was he on any medications? Um, other than the cold meds Liv fed him, she hadn’t seen him pop so much as a Tylenol. Allergies? She kept reading. Oh dear. Past surgeries? Medical history?
No stinkin’ idea.
“I can’t do this, Brad.”
“You’re right, you shouldn’t guess. It’s okay. We’ll get Blaze to look at it after—”
She flopped the clipboard into the chair next to her, fighting a wave of nausea. “It’s not just that. It’s this whole thing. It’s so wrong.”
The receptionist’s nasally giggle traveled across the room. Miranda propped her elbows on her knees, head hung, fingers massaging her temples. “What if Blaze’s falling out of the tree is God trying to tell us something.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m an idiot for trying to pull this off.”
Brad’s chuckle grated on her nerves. “Rand, I think God could get the message across a lot more effectively than breaking Blaze’s arm. This is just a hiccup. Don’t give up on it now. And you’re hardly an idiot.”
“I absolutely am. Did you hear me with the receptionist? ‘My husband’s hurt.’ My husband. Lied right to her face.” She rubbed her hands over her knees, dirt staining the denim in patches of beige.
“You’re not hurting anyone.”
“We’re . . . in . . . a . . . hospital.”
“You didn’t force Blaze to climb the tree. Didn’t we already have this conversation?”
“And if you knew what I almost did . . .” She stood, head hammering now. Panic—that’s what it was—creeping like something toxic up her throat. “I almost told Matthew the truth.”
Brad’s gaze shot to hers. “You didn’t.”
Something was humming now, like trapped wind. “Almost said it right to his face.”
“Randi—”
She mimicked herself, exaggerated her own breathy voice. “‘I’m not married. He’s not really my husband.’” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “‘It’s all a big show.’”
A gasp. Only . . .
Only it came from behind her. Oh no. The humming, the revolving door . . .
Brad winced. She turned. Could almost hear the click in Matthew’s brain as her eyes locked with his. Watched the dawning play out over his features as heated confusion turned to angry realization.
And maybe something even worse. Hurt.
“Matthew, I—”
But he whirled, disappeared the way he’d come.
Leaving heart-piercing shame in his wake.
Chapter 11
“He’s not answering.” Brad scraped his fingers through his hair, letting out a frustrated exhale. His knuckles were white around his phone.
Miranda hugged her arms to herself, shoulders hunched, the weight flattening her into inactivity. She leaned against a pillar outside the hospital, cement cold against her back. Her thoughts, her emotions, they were a tangle of wires connected to a ticking bomb. Pull the wrong one and she’d detonate.
“Knox isn’t answering,” Brad repeated, moving until he faced her square on.
“Of course he’s not.” Because she hadn’t only accidentally confessed to her lie . . . she’d wounded Matthew. She’d seen it in the shadows passing over his face, the same look of betrayal she used to wear like a permanent accessory after Robbie.
Not possible. You and Robbie were a couple, together for a year and a half. You’ve barely known Matthew tw
o weeks.
“Rand, this isn’t the time to play the wilting lily. We’ve got to do something before he goes and ruins everything.”
When had the sun slipped behind a mess of churlish clouds? “What can I do? You’ve tried calling him half a dozen times already.”
Seconds after Matthew had disappeared from the waiting room, she and Brad had rushed after him. But he was already gunning out of the lot in his Jeep.
Now, more than half an hour later, Miranda couldn’t seem to unfreeze. And Brad, poor panicked Brad, was about to lose it. “I’m so sorry, Brad,” she said for the twentieth, maybe thirtieth, time. How could she have been so stupid? The hairs on her arms rose as an unforgiving breeze whipped under the hospital’s canopied circle drive.
“Where’s your phone?” Brad asked, ignoring her apology, barely veiled irritation heating his tone.
“In my bag.” She pushed escaped strands of hair behind her ear. “Inside.” Where she’d left her dignity.
Or had she lost that years ago, when she’d traded in truth for a pretty picture now broken?
Brad gripped her elbow. “Then we’re going in. You’re going to call him this time.”
“Brad, if he didn’t answer your calls, he certainly isn’t going to answer mine.”
“You two were friends.” He lurched to a stop. “Maybe something else.” And then he was in front of her again, the accusation in his eyes as piercing as the sound of the ambulance’s siren bursting from the garage nearby. “Was something else going on, Randi?”
She yanked her arm away, escaped into the shelter of the revolving door. Oh, to just curl up on the floor, let the door spin and spin and spin until someone else had miraculously sorted out the clutter of her life.
Instead, when the door spit her out, her feet hit the flake-chipped flooring of the waiting room. She retrieved her bag, dug for her phone, heard Brad coming up behind her. “Think whatever you want, Walsh, but save the interrogation for another day. I’m calling him.”
“Rand, you know I didn’t mean—”
She cut him off with a raised hand as the rings of Matthew’s phone sounded against her ear, one after another. And then his voice. “Hi, this is Matthew Knox. Sorry I’m not answering . . .” She took a breath, waited for the beep.
“It’s me.” A pregnant pause. “I don’t even know what to say. Maybe by the time you call me back, I will. But . . .” Nothing. There was no excuse good enough. She tapped out of the call.
“You should’ve told him you could explain,” Brad said.
“Like you already did a hundred times?”
He lowered his voice to a hush. “Do you even halfway understand what this could mean? Do you care?”
She punched a text message into her phone as Brad spoke.
Call me, Matthew. Please.
“Of course, I do. All it’d take is one call and he could have the media swarming. I’m so incredibly mad at myself.” She dropped her phone into her bag. “But I’ve got to worry about Blaze now.”
“Blaze is going to be fine. It’s your career that may end up permanently fractured.” They faced off—Miranda’s feet planted shoulders length apart, Brad with crossed arms. “Randi, I’m speaking as your manager . . . and as your friend. You could be in serious trouble.”
She softened her tone to match his. “I know, Brad. I . . . know.” Miranda lowered her head to his shoulder, felt his arms unwind and one hand pat her back.
“We’ll just have to regroup,” he said. “We’ll figure something out. Maybe Knox will decide he didn’t hear what he thought he heard.”
“Excuse me?” A nurse in maroon scrubs entered the lounge. “Blake will be ready to leave in a jiffy. Would one of you like to come back?”
Miranda met Brad’s eyes. He nodded. “Yes, I’d like that,” she answered, pulling her bag over her shoulder, grabbing the clipboard, and following the nurse down a shiny-floored corridor. A thick blue stripe ran the length of the wall, all the way to the patient room at the far end.
“Blake’s in there,” the nurse said. “The doctor is giving him some final instructions about taking care of his cast.”
Miranda stepped through the door to see an exhausted Blaze, bobbing his head as the doctor spoke, a clean white cast encasing his arm.
“All right, we should be good to go, Blake. Take good care of that arm. We’ll see you again in a few weeks.”
Miranda approached the side of the exam table as the doctor left. Blaze’s feet knocked against the metal edges, and he gave her one of his lopsided smiles. “Guess it pays to be ambidextrous, huh.” The words rolled off his tongue way too easily, considering their location, the day’s events, and the sling holding his casted arm.
“Are you really ambidextrous?”
“I think so, but my fourth-grade penmanship teacher might disagree.” He hopped off the table. “Let’s go. Hospitals make me queasy.”
Miranda tilted her head to meet his eyes. “I’m really sorry this happened, Blaze. Truly.”
“Not your fault, muffin. Come on.”
“Wait a minute. You need to help me finish filling out this form.” She held up the clipboard. “Let’s see . . . They’re asking for your previous surgeries.”
Blaze looked over her shoulder at the form. “Oh, honey, we are going to need a lot more space than that. Maybe we should ask for another sheet of paper.”
Fifteen minutes later, they handed the clipboard to the nurse. As she walked out of the room reading the form, her eyes widened and she mumbled something about showing it to the doctor. But no one told them to wait, so they quickly covered the length of the hallway. Miranda was surprised by the sound of voices growing as they neared the waiting area. “Wow, the ER must have filled up in the past few minutes,” she mused. They rounded the corner . . .
And a flash of light blinded her. The click of cameras. Voices hurling questions. And Brad’s call raising above them all. “People, back off. Back. Off.”
When the stars cleared from her eyes, she caught sight of the sheepish receptionist perched behind her desk.
“Randi, what happened? Was it an accident on set?”
“I thought From the Ground Up suspended taping?”
“Is a broken arm your husband’s only injury?”
They were still calling him her husband.
She slung her arm through Blaze’s good elbow, and they shoved through the crowd. Wait! “Brad, where’s Liv?” she called as they barreled outside, the press flocking behind. In all the chaos of the past hour, she’d completely forgotten her friend.
“She found Wi-Fi access at a coffee shop across the street. We’ll pick her up.”
They fell into Brad’s car.
And finally, twenty minutes later, after they’d picked up Liv and headed out of town, Miranda pulled her phone from her bag. No missed calls. No messages. No texts. She checked to make sure the ringer was on. Then opened a new text message, found Matthew’s number, and typed two words:
I’m sorry.
With one hand Matthew navigated the snaking highway, following the directions of his GPS. With the other, he hit speed dial on his cell and lifted it to his ear. This was probably stupid. All of it: the drive, the phone call.
But so was faking a marriage for the sake of television ratings.
The phone rang. Once, twice, three times. Answer, man. This isn’t a call you want to miss. Four, five, six rings. Do I really want to do this?
He’d spent the first forty minutes of the drive with a tic in his jaw, the kind of fury beating through him he hadn’t felt since his father shoved his erroneous article at his face five years ago.
The next forty minutes, he’d debated with himself. Then he fished out his phone.
“This is Greg Dooley. Leave a message.”
Matthew waited for the beep. “It’s Knox. I’ve got your story. Call me.” He chucked his phone into the passenger seat and eyed the GPS. Less than half an hour to his destination.
He reached for t
he flimsy plastic cup in his cup holder. Fountain pop from a gas station, now flat. He flipped off the lid, pushed the straw aside, and drank.
It wasn’t right, what Miranda was doing. He wasn’t just angry about the lie itself. He’d kept quiet about that whole Robbie thing, had even gallantly thought he was helping the woman. His blind trust had kept him from seeing that her secrets went so much deeper.
And now he had no clue how to direct his reaction. After he’d stalked out of the hospital a couple hours ago, he’d slammed the door of the Jeep, then simply started driving. Aimless, twisted up inside like a tangled yo-yo.
Because as infuriated as he was toward Miranda, he couldn’t deny the thin ribbon of relief also winding its way through him. She’s not married. His conscience recited the new mantra like the “Hallelujah Chorus.” And he hated himself for it.
Whatever forbidden feeling you thought you felt before—thought she might feel—it wasn’t real. Because she’s not real.
Why he’d suddenly gotten the urge to hit the Interstate, to finally do what Jase had begged him to, he had no idea. Maybe because Jase, unlike the woman who’d so skillfully caught him in her web, could actually be trusted.
The western sun stung his eyes, and with an angry swipe, he lowered the visor.
Yes. When Dooley called him back, he’d spill the whole thing. No more Mr. Nice Reporter. He’d tell all, and then they’d decide how to break the story—on the blog or another way.
His phone chirped from the passenger seat. Good. Dooley got his voice mail. He pulled it to his ear. “Knox here.”
“Uncle Matt!” Cee’s voice bubbled with glee.
He inhaled, every muscle knotted and tense. Switch gears, man. He couldn’t disappoint Cee. Not when he knew how much she loved using the speech-to-text relay phone service Jase and Izzy had purchased.
“Hey, sweetheart. It’s so good to talk to you,” he answered, knowing she’d read his words as the relay service transcribed them, relieved that she wouldn’t hear the strain in his voice.
“I miss you. When are you coming back?”
He wanted to say soon. Playing the gullible fool grew old the minute he heard Miranda’s sarcastic proclamation. “It’s all a big show.”
