Page 33 of Faker
The doctor flashes a penlight in my eyes, then presses around the injured side of my head. “I don’t see any bruising on your head, which is good. Did you throw up?”
“I dry heaved once and spit saliva, but I didn’t throw up. I haven’t eaten anything today, though.”
Tate explains how I was able to read the registration form in the waiting room. The doctor nods and scribbles some notes in his clipboard. “It sounds like you’ve had a minor concussion. It’s an excellent sign that you seemed to have regained cognitive ability after about fifteen minutes of feeling out of sorts. I think you’ll be just fine, but we’d like to keep you overnight at the hospital for observation, just to be extra sure. That sound okay?”
I nod and close my eyes. Then I remember the warning about sleeping and peel them open.
By the way he chuckles, the doctor seems to read the thought tumbling through my mind. “Tired?”
“A little.”
He squints at the clipboard. “It’s okay to sleep if you feel tired, actually. The nurses will check up on you periodically once we admit you to a room upstairs. We’ll wake you up every couple hours to make sure you’re doing okay. If your boyfriend can stay with you and keep you company, too, that’s even better.”
“Oh no, he’s...”
The gentle frown crowding Tate’s face halts me. The doctor and the nurse probably don’t care that he’s not my boyfriend, just a coworker who I shared a hot car make-out with.
When the doctor leaves, the nurse says someone will be in soon to fetch me and take me to a room upstairs. She walks out the door, leaving Tate and me alone once more.
“I wasn’t trying to make it seem like you and I—I mean, I didn’t want to get into...”
He holds up a hand, then a half smile crawls across his face. “Don’t even worry about it.”
“You can leave. I’ll be fine here alone.”
His smile drops.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just, I assumed you’d be tired from all you did today. And that you’d be sick of me.”
“I’m not,” he says quietly.
There’s eagerness behind his eyes, and I realize he truly wants to stay with me. My stomach flips with excitement and relief. And then it hits me: I want Tate here with me, too, no one else.
“Then stay here with me. If you want.”
With his calming blue-gray eyes, he holds my gaze. They’re the perfect hue to warm up this sterile white room.
“I’d love to,” he says.
ten
One hour later, I’m in a private room on the fourth floor. Tate walks to the window, whipping open the curtains before walking back to my bedside.
“What time is it?”
He checks the clock on the wall. “Almost six.”
I mouth, “Wow,” silently to myself. I should have known from the dark orange sunlight shining behind the concrete tower crowding my window view. Tate has taken care of me and been by my side for the past few hours. He’s watched me fall, smoothed my hair back, consoled me, held me, propped me up when I couldn’t walk. Now he gets to watch me struggle to relax while I recover from a concussion.
“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 thehospital 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.
•••
