Page 32 of Faker
“This isn’t a two-person job. I said I’ve got it,” Tate barks as he lowers me into the front passenger seat.
“Look, I’m just trying to help. Dial back the intensity, will you?” Jamie’s impatience sounds on the cusp of anger. I try to speak, but instead I heave a wad of spit onto the concrete below. I shut my eyes.
“I don’t have time to argue with you,” Tate says. “I need to get her to the hospital.” When he touches my cheek, I open my eyes. He’s crouched down, staring at me. His entire milky forehead fills with a half dozen concerned creases. “She’s completely out of it. She needs to be at the ER now.”
Jamie says something about calling me, but Tate shuts the door and I can’t make out the rest. Tate speeds out of the parking lot. I bounce between the door and my seat with each urgent turn and press of the gas pedal. If social media doesn’t work out, he’d make one hell of a getaway driver. We’re paused at a stoplight when he seems to remember that I’m unbuckled. He straps me in with my seat belt.
“It’ll be okay,” he says calmly. “We’re almost there.”
The panic filling me is in direct opposition to the slow-motion gears crowding my head. “Do you promise?” I peek up at him from under a mess of sweaty hair.
“Promise.” He holds my gaze for a long second. “Don’t fall asleep though, okay?”
After pulling into the parking lot, he leads me to the ER with easy strength yet again. I’m clutching at him like an injured lemur, but judging by the firm way he grips my body, he doesn’t seem to mind. In the waiting room, he takes the chair next to me and fills out my paperwork, consulting my ID and insurance card when needed. I try to say thank you, but a lump lodges in my throat.
“Here. Come here.” He slinks his arm around me, and my face falls into the space between his shoulder and chest. How he could sense the silent panic within me, I don’t know. I’m grateful he could though, because being cuddled into him is pure divinity. I could nuzzle forever in this perfect crook.
My eyes fly open when I remember that he said not to fall asleep. Instead, I huff a deep breath. The spicy forest aroma of his deodorant is a needed distraction. I’ll have to ask him later what brand it is. I inhale deeply, keeping my eyes shut. Not a hint of sweat in his scent. Even in the heat and humidity of this morning, he managed to stay BO-free. He is a machine.
When I glance at the form, I notice he wrote the wrong date. I point to it. “No. That was yesterday’s date.”
Pure relief washes over his face when he gazes at me. “You can read this?”
I nod, then smile when I realize what a good sign that is. My gaze floats to an elderly woman across from us, smiling kindly. We must look adorable huddled together.
Soon a nurse fetches me. Tate props me up once again, and wefollow her through glass doors to an empty exam room. As I’m settled into the bed, Tate stands in the corner, staring at me in silence. The creases in his forehead remain. I want to tell him to stop frowning because it will cause premature wrinkles, but I don’t have the energy.
The nurse takes my vitals, gives me a gown to change into, sticks an IV into me, then tells me I have to give a urine sample before the doctor can see me.
“I don’t know if I can even pee,” I mumble. I couldn’t stomach anything other than a glass of water this morning, the pain in my side was so bad, and I sweat it all out during the first five minutes on the worksite.
“Well, you have to try. If you can’t pee, I’ll have to take it from you with a catheter, and trust me, you don’t want that,” she says flippantly while gazing at her watch and checking the pulse in my wrist.
She hands me a plastic cup and walks out of the room. Tate glowers at her; I assume because of her impersonal bedside manner. I lean up from the bed.
“Don’t stand up by yourself.” He rushes over and slides my legs over the edge. “Do you need help?”
With what little strength I have, I roll my eyes. “No way in hell you’re helping me pee. Or change.”
He sighs and leads me to the toilet despite my false claims that I can walk on my own. I take a moment to steady myself against the closed door. After undressing, I toss the flimsy gown on and tie it in the back. A measly amount of dark yellow urine is all I’m able to squeeze into the cup, which I leave on the ledge of the sink before washing up. Tate practically carries me back to the bed.
The nurse returns, this time with a forty-something man wearing a white coat and stethoscope around his neck. The doctor, Iassume. He introduces himself before asking what happened, and I explain my fall. He inquires about any pain or injuries. I mention the allover soreness and the ache in my right side.
The doctor presses and prods me, asking me to move various limbs and describe the pain.
“Nothing seems broken, which is good. There’ll be bruises and scrapes, but the soreness will fade after a few days. Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Emmaline Echavarre. I go by Emmie, though.”
“Good. Emmie, can you tell me what day it is?”
“Friday.”
“Very good. And where are you right now?”
“The hospital emergency room.”
From the corner, Tate huffs a sigh. He seems relieved.
