Page 49 of Faker
You’re welcome. I hope you feel better.
Relief hits me, followed by disappointment. It’s an appropriate reply. Something’s missing, though. I can’t tell if it’s because we’re communicating via text and the nuance of emotion is impossible to convey, or if it’s because he’s back to his rigid, stern self. It’s hard enough admitting this in the privacy of my mind, but I wanted a more personal response from him. I wanted him to say what a pleasure it was to hold my body, how honored he was to play nurse to me for the weekend, that he was sleepless until he heard from me.
I rinse and spit in the sink, annoyed with my irrational desire.I thanked him, and he acknowledged me. I lay in bed tossing and turning, confused as to why I expected anything more.
The glow of my phone screen cuts through the darkness of my bedroom, interrupting my thoughts. I turned it to silent but forgot to set it facedown on my nightstand like I normally do. When I check it, I have to bite my lip to keep from splitting my face in half with a grin. At 11:47 p.m., Tate’s text to me has sent all my doubts flying out the window.
Tate: No reply? Aww, Emmie. I was hoping I’d get a smiley face, or a “good night.” You’re killing me :P
God in heaven, that colon with a “P” is my new favorite emoji.
Me: Sorry. Recovery and all that has my brain in an odd mode.
Me: :D:D:D
Me: Is that any better?
Tate: It will suffice. I can rest easy knowing you have the energy to be a smart-ass to me via text ;)
Holy shit, a winking face. My heart thunders through my chest. Before I can reply with another silly emoji, he replies.
Tate: Is it okay if I check on you every day? I know you don’t want to be smothered, but I’d like to be there for you. If you want me. I’ve been thinking about you.
Tate: Maybe I can come over too?
My heart has ceased thundering. Currently, it’s at the base of my throat along with my stomach, my lungs, my liver, and probably both of my kidneys. My entire body is in a giant knot at his sweetness on full, unquestionable display. I worried for nothing. He cares. I’ve been on his mind, and he wants to be close to me, just like I want to be close to him.
Yes, please.
thirteen
You sure you’re okay?”
It’s the millionth time Kaitlin has asked me that in this ten-minute phone call. No matter how many times I say it, she doesn’t believe me.
“Because I can dart over there no problem. Ethan is home from work. I could stay with you tonight and fetch things for you, make sure you don’t fall.”
I lean on the kitchen counter, checking the clock on the wall. I need to get off the phone ASAP. “I’m fine. It’s been three days since the surgery, and I’ve somehow survived. You’ve done enough. I have a full refrigerator thanks to your grocery run this morning.”
“Do you need help in the bath?”
I swallow back a laugh. “I should be able to bathe myself at this point. Thank you, though. Why don’t you spend the rest of the night relaxing with Ethan and Libby? I’ll text you if I need anything else.”
I thank her once more, and we hang up. Three days postsurgery, I’m still sore, but improving. I can stand, sit, and lie down without groaning in pain. I can chuckle duringEat Bulaga!without my stomach hurting too much, and I can walk for a half hour around the neighborhood before getting tired. The only thing left on my list is to shower. Finally. And it’s for the best possible reason: Tate is coming over soon to check on me.
I’d like to be fresh and clean for his arrival. Our late-night text session led to an all-day exchange today while he was at work. And it wasn’t just checking-in texts asking how I felt, but full-on conversations complete with jokes, emojis, and one video of a bunny and kitten falling asleep together in an Easter basket. I squealed out loud when he sent me that one.
I make my way to the shower, letting the wonderful weirdness of the past few days wash over me. My once work enemy is the guy causing all these butterflies in my stomach. And I want these butterflies swarming through me every single day.
Steam from the hot water transforms my tiny bathroom into a sauna. As soothing as the wet, warm air feels, a flash of panic hits. The bottom of my white porcelain tub glistens like it’s iced over. Kaitlin was right. What if I slip and fall?
A knock at the front door saves me from finding out. Carefully, I pull my tank top and shorts back on before opening the door to greet Tate.
“Hey.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Butterflies and warmth hit me square in the gut at the sight of him. “Thanks for coming over.” I take a step back, hoping he can’t smell my stench.
“Is there water running?” His eyes dart over my shoulder.
