by Sarah Smith
“And I called Lynn to update her on everything. She says everyone is relieved you’re okay. They all say hi. Wanna try to take a nap?”
Hearing the word “nap” is like the opposite of a trigger. My body unclenches, and fatigue rushes through me like air. “What will you do?” I say through a yawn.
“Hang out right here.” He pulls a chair up to the side of the hospital bed. When he sits down, he’s facing me, his knees inches away. If he reached his arm out, he could touch my face. “Don’t worry about me.”
His fingers brush the top of my hands for two seconds before he returns his hand to the top of his leg. I close my eyes.
* * *
• • •
SHORT NAPS ARE all I manage until the sky outside my window turns indigo, indicating the dead of evening. Tate still sits by my bedside, like a patient guardian. He alternates between reading something on his phone and skimming through a stack of magazines he found near the nurses’ station.
Through a handful of blinks, I study him. His eyes are heavy with fatigue. Then they cut to me.
“No reading over my shoulder. You’re not supposed to tax your brain. Rest like a good patient, okay?” A yawn follows his gentle warning.
“You’re tired.”
“A little, but I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in worse places before, believe it or not.”
When I open my mouth, I expect to hear myself ask what places are less comfortable than a shoddy plastic chair, but then I hear myself say, “That chair is no good to spend the night in. Stay up here with me.”
Dread fills me when I realize how desperate I sound, but it quickly dissipates. His eyes don’t widen in surprise like I thought they would. Instead, a relieved smile appears. “Okay.”
It brings warmth to my chest, setting me at ease. It’s a welcome counter to the soreness lingering in my body. I slide to one edge of the hospital bed and shift to my side. He says nothing while kicking off his shoes and climbing next to me. With his back flat over the covers, I cuddle into the crook of his shoulder and chest. It’s the same cozy position we practiced in the ER waiting room, only better because now we’re lying down. For a moment, I wonder what plans he had for today and if he had to cancel anything to look after me.
“Don’t worry. I won’t try anything,” he teases in a whisper.
“Even if you did, it wouldn’t make a difference.” I yawn. This hospital bed must have been made for a giant, because even though it’s a tight fit, it’s not uncomfortable. In fact, I feel a million times more comfortable snuggled next to him than I did while lying in it alone.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m difficult to excite in that way.”
“You mean . . .” He drifts off.
“I’ll give you a hint: I’m not often able to reach the top of the mountain.” I yawn again. “We’ll see how long it takes you to figure it out.”
A minute passes. “Does it start with an ‘O’?” he asks.
I nod.
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It’s fine.”
“So you’ve never had an orgasm?” he says after several seconds of silence.
“No, I have. Just not with most people I’ve been with. I fake them usually. I can give myself one just fine.”
He nuzzles the top of my head and takes a long whiff of my hair. The knotted muscles in my shoulders relax. I can’t remember the last time I was this comfortable, this content against a male body.
“You are a fascinating being, Emmie.”
I let out a tired moan. With each blink, my eyelids stay closed longer and longer. Feeling Tate’s solid body against mine is an instant relaxer. I’m not far from sleep. “Thank you for taking care of me today. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to. Thank you for letting me.”
My ear presses against the side of his chest, the slow rhythm of his heartbeat lulling me to sleep.
* * *
• • •
THERE’S ONLY PITCH black when I open my eyes. It’s a handful of moments before my vision adjusts and I spot the crack of yellow light between the door and the wall. The nurse must have shut it while we slept. She also must not have minded the way we disregarded the visiting hour policy, because Tate is still cuddled up next to me. I zero in on his faint wheeze above my head. I tilt up for a look. When I move my shoulder slightly, he stirs. His eyes open, and even in the darkness, their soothing color is visible.
“Hey there,” he whispers in a raspy voice. My ears tingle, giddy at the sound. I wonder if this is what he sounds like first thing in the morning.
“Hi,” I whisper back. “Are you comfortable? Do you need me to move?”
He closes his eyes again and gives me a sleepy smile. He shakes his head. “Nope. This is perfect.”
A tiny spot in the center of my chest bursts. I’ve never seen a grin that was as adorable as it was sexy. I try to scoot closer to the railing to give him more space, but his arm keeps me firmly against him.
“Cognitive wellness check,” he whispers. “Tell me your name, the day, and where you’re at.”
A sleepy chuckle falls from me before I answer the questions perfectly, just I like I did when the nurse checked on me.
His massive hand gives my upper arm a single soft squeeze, then his thumb rubs up and down my skin. He doesn’t want to let me go.
“You passed with flying colors.”
Goose bumps spring up all over my body. It occurs to me I’ve never, ever felt this comfortable and safeguarded with any man I’ve been with. No boyfriend has ever cuddled me the way he does. Whenever a guy has tried to spoon me in bed, I pull away. I feel smothered and contorted, and I can’t escape their grip fast enough. But one night in this bed with Tate is changing me. I think I’m a born-again cuddler.
With my body sunken into his, I burrow my nose in his chest. “You sure you’re comfortable?” I peek up from under my eyelids to steal another glance.
Even though his face shows all signs of being in a restful sleep, he answers. “Very.”
The dull pain in my right side sharpens. I’ve been curled in the fetal position too long, and my sore body’s not happy about it. I shuffle around so my back is cradled by his front, and in an instant, I’m asleep once more.
When I wake in the morning, I’m still wrapped in Tate’s left arm, but the minor ache in my side has morphed into something worse, like I’m being stabbed with a dull butter knife. I touch my forehead, and my fingers come away covered in cold sweat. Why the hell am I burning up? Momentary shivers cause my teeth to chatter. I try to straighten my legs against the bed, but the cramping worsens. I have to take several deep breaths. Did my concussion cause this?
Tate’s peaceful snoozing tickles my ears, the only source of comfort I can latch onto right now.
“Tate,” I whine.
There’s a soft grunt. “What is it? Are you okay?”
I shake my head. Seconds pass. The more awake I feel, the worse it gets. There’s an invisible vise twisting the side of my stomach, eviscerating my insides.
I feel his warm, firm body peel away from me. The bed rattles, and there’s a thud. Tate jumping out of bed and falling to the floor, I assume. He rounds the foot of the bed and crouches down so he’s eye level with me.
“God, you look pale.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
He frowns. “Don’t joke. I’m serious. Hang tight, I’ll be back with one of the nurses.”
Deep breaths help, but only marginally. The ache from the fall, the sore spot on the side of my head, is nothing compared to the invisible machete in my right side.
Soon Tate returns with a nurse I don’t recognize and a dark-haired woman in a crisp white lab coat. The doctor on call, I think.
She leans down over me, then gently presses me flat on the bed. �
��Emmie, I’m Dr. Tran. Can you tell me about the pain you’re experiencing?” Her deep brown eyes study me.
I explain how it feels like psychotic-level PMS cramps and how it started as a dull ache in my right side a couple days ago. Dr. Tran presses her gloved hands all over the side of my lower abdomen while I bite back squeals of pain. I rack my brain to try and remember if I landed on something when I fell that could have caused an internal injury.
Behind the cloud of pain that consumes me, I hear Tate ask if my fall could have anything do with this. It’s a trickle of comfort in my physical agony that he’s somehow so in tune with me.
The doctor says something about not ruling anything out before turning back to me. “I’m going to order a CT scan to get a better look at what’s going on in there.”
I nod and close my eyes.
“I know you’re in intense pain right now, so we’re going to give you some morphine. It’ll take a few minutes to kick in, but once it does, you’ll feel a lot better.”
The promise of no more mind-blowing pain is the best thing she could have told me. I’m approaching kid-on-Christmas-morning levels of happiness. The nurse administers the morphine and leaves with Dr. Tran.
Tate walks to my side. “You’ll feel better in a few minutes. Just breathe with me until the morphine kicks in, okay?”
“Okay. Thank you,” I say softly. The sharp stab gradually fades back into an ache.
“That’s it. Just keep breathing. Slowly. In and out.” He must notice that I’m death-gripping the edge of the bed, because he places his hand over mine. Instantly, my fingers loosen.
I follow his instructions. The intensity of the ache decreases as the seconds tick by. When it reaches a dull soreness, I almost smile.
“Wow,” I say in a drawn-out whisper.
His eyes widen. “What?”
“I feel better already.”
This time when I close my eyes, I fall asleep. I wake up to the jolt of my bed wheeling down a hallway. A large tan man pushes me into a darkened room filled with expensive-looking medical machinery. A tiny blond woman with a cheery smile and her hair in a bun greets me before saying something about hauling me onto the bed of the CT scan. With the morphine coursing through me, I tell her I feel strong enough to climb up by myself. She nods for the man to stand next to me just in case I fall, but I make it unassisted.
Slowly, my body is slid into the darkened tunnel. It stops so just my head and upper chest jut out from the opening. For five minutes I lie there, staying as still as possible. Slow, deep breaths tide me over until I slide out and climb back into the hospital bed. I’m wheeled back to my room.
“How was it?” Tate asks, seated in the chair at my side.
“Glorious.” I run my palms lightly over my stomach.
“I wonder what weird things they found in my stomach.” The morphine leaves me floating in a cloudy haze. “Maybe a pack of tiny elves is hunkered down in my gut, stabbing me with samurai swords. That’s what it feels like.”
He chuckles. “Those ninja elves need to come up with better things to do with their time than bother you. Like fighting crime.”
“Or making cookies in a tree.”
“Or repairing shoes.”
I laugh, then I narrow my eyes at him. He stares back, studying my face as hard as I’m studying his.
“You’re impressively pale,” I say.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I love it.”
“You do?” His cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. He sounds genuinely surprised.
“You remind me of the Scandinavians who travel to the Big Island for the Ironman race. When I was a kid, I’d see them jogging and swimming all over the island to practice for it. They were milky white and ripped to hell, just like you.”
The truth-serum effect of painkillers is impressive. I’m telling him things I would normally never dream of saying out loud.
He lets out a half chuckle. “How do you know I’m ripped to hell?” His elbow rests on his knee, his chin propped on his fist.
“You wore a tank top when I saw you at the rock climbing gym. Your arms are . . . delightful.” I catch him with an amused smile. It’s heaven knowing I caused it. “And the shirt you’re wearing now leaves little to the imagination.”
Now that he’s hunched over a bit, he’s within touching distance. I reach over and grab his biceps in my hand. Even under fabric, it’s hard as steel. The firmness makes my insides ache in a good way. Normally, I would never be so bold as to feel up a man’s arm. I blame the morphine.
“This spandex or Lycra or whatever it is, the way it hugs your body, I can see all the muscles.”
He shifts in his chair. His cheeks are full-on red now. I think I’m overdoing it in the compliments department, but I can’t help it. The painkillers are holding the filter between my brain and my mouth hostage. I am no longer myself. I am Morphine Emmie who is making my coworker feel self-conscious by showering him with compliments about his body.
“The other day at the worksite, you lifted your shirt up a couple times to wipe your face. I got an excellent view of your stomach. Very muscly. Muah.” I kiss my fingertips like I’m complementing a delicious Italian meal.
“Jesus Christ.” He laughs. “That’s enough out of you.” The chuckling fades, but his smile remains. “You should sleep now.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” I’m in a cloudy haze, but it’s different from the confusion I felt during my concussion. It’s a light, airy feeling that reminds me of laughing gas at the dentist.
He shakes his head. “I overhead Dr. Tran telling the nurse she’s pretty positive you’re fully recovered from your minor concussion.”
His words are the green light my body seems to need to fully relax. At least my first health crisis resolved itself before the next one arrived. Soon that cloudy haze turns into half sleep. I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I open my eyes, self-awareness makes an appearance. My face heats when I remember how I grabbed Tate’s arm. Whatever momentary gall it was that came over me then has gone into hiding now.
I don’t know why I feel so self-conscious all of a sudden. We shared a bed last night and this morning after all. But that was tender and sweet. My drugged-up comments to him were downright outrageous.
Dr. Tran glides back into my room. “I just wanted to pop in and let you know that we believe you’re suffering from appendicitis.”
My mouth falls open so fast, my jaw pops. That’s a hell of a way to announce a serious medical issue. Straight to the point, not even a hello to soften the blow.
She seems to sense the fear coursing through me and quickly explains in laymen’s terms the results of my CT scan, specifically how my appendix is inflamed. A simple surgery scheduled for this afternoon is the chosen course of action.
Appendicitis. Inflamed. Surgery. Her words incite a slow-motion freak-out inside of me. All I can do is ball my clammy hands into fists and remind myself to breathe. When I ease into an inhale, I realize I’ve been holding my breath the entire time she’s been speaking.
“Surgery?” is the only thing I can say.
Dr. Tran’s kind brown eyes focus on me when she finally picks up on my fright. “It’s a routine procedure, and I’ll be performing it. You have no reason to worry.”
“Sorry, I’m just a little scared. I’ve never been cut open in my life. Ever.” My meek voice is a dead giveaway for how terrified I am. Tate grabs my hand, interlacing his fingers with mine. The warmth of his skin is the most soothing thing in the world.
“I understand.” When she nods, her shoulder-length black bob moves in a single perfect swish. “But you’re young and you’re healthy. I have every reason to believe you’ll recovery quickly from this.”
“I don’t understand . . . How did my concussion cause this?”
“I ca
n assure you, it didn’t. From what you described, the symptoms started before your fall. The shock of the concussion seemed to cloud things for a bit. In all likelihood, you mistook the appendicitis pain as soreness from your fall.” She taps my blanket-covered leg with her hand. “I know it’s a lot to process, but you’ll be fine.”
She tells me the aides will fetch me around one thirty to bring me down to the surgery ward. When she leaves, ringing fills my ears. I stare at the clock. Exactly one hour until I’m wheeled to the OR.
“Emmie.”
I finally register Tate’s voice.
“You have nothing to worry about,” he says in a calming tone. “I’ll be right here with you the entire time.” He traces the top of my knuckles with his free hand.
At work, I find his unrelenting gaze unnerving. Right now, it’s pure comfort. There’s an invisible, unbreakable line between my eyes and his. The longer I look at him, the surer I feel. The more I trust him. The comfort deepens, seeps into my chest, then spreads to everywhere else in my body.
“Do you want me to call your family and tell them you’re here?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to worry them.”
He raises an eyebrow at me.
“My mom is in the Philippines for the next month visiting my aunt, my dad is on the road for work, and my sister is jungle hopping in Costa Rica. It’s hardly worth the trouble.”
I silently thank the heavens that my mom is out of the country. If she were home, she’d drive like a bat out of hell to my hospital bed from the nearby suburb where she lives. Then she’d camp out at my bedside babying me, just like she did when I would fall sick as a kid. It would be sweet for sure, but too much.
“Someone needs to know where you are,” Tate says.
“Why? If things are routine like you say they are, I don’t need to worry anyone by calling them and telling them I’m in the hospital.”
