Page 31 of Don't Forget Me
Jasmine didn’t get it.
But instead of being this big figure to put on a pedestal, he’d been kind of… mean. It was sad in a way.
Now, she couldn’t take her eyes from his pale face. A thin sheen of sweat coated his skin, and his eyes were closed with no movement beneath them. She’d seen the movies about coma patients, how they traveled through the hospital trying to decide if they wanted to live or not.
It was something of a cliché, but most clichés held some bit of truth, and Jasmine was more of a cynic than anything else. In her opinion, Nick was already gone.
A throat cleared behind her, and she turned to find the narrowed eyes of Sherrie scanning her from head to toe. “Good, it’s about time the cleaning crew got here. This room stinks.”
Jasmine shouldn’t have been shocked; she was used to jerks and had heard Sherrie Thompson was one of those Hollywood people who thought those not in the business were beneath her.
Truth be told, his relationship with Sherrie was one of the reasons she considered Nick a sell-out.
“I-I’m not—”
“Stop.” Sherrie leaned in, looking at Jasmine’s name badge. “Jas, is it? I don’t need chatter. I just need you to do your job.”
Jasmine cleared her throat. “Well, I’m not a janitor—even if they wore scrubs—but thanks for the not-so-subtle racism.”
Sherrie opened her mouth to retort, but Jasmine didn’t let her finish.
She lifted a hand. “I’m your husband’s nurse for the shift, and I’m afraid I need you to leave for a few minutes while I administer a treatment. Unless you’d like to stay. I could use some help collecting a urine sample.”
Sherrie stepped back, her face twisted in disgust. “Fine. I’ve been here all day anyway. I need to get back to set.”
She didn’t realize Jasmine had seen her arrive only moments before—or that it was only ten in the morning.
On her way out, Sherrie shoved past a young blond man pushing a mop bucket. He ducked his head in with a smile. “This room is up next on my list.”
“I’ll be done in a few minutes.”
He nodded and left her alone with Nick. Man, this hospital was trusting. All one had to do was dress the part.
“Your wife is a piece of work.” Jasmine looked down into Nick’s face, trying to do what her editor said and see the man behind the actor. Here, in this bed, he wasn’t the famous guy everyone thought they knew.
There was something so human about a coma, about the machine telling them he was still alive, his brain still functioning.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t want to come back either.” Wherever he was had to be better than everything he’d left behind. Vulturous reporters—including her—hounded him for every secret.
An accident that could now ruin his life.
Nick Jacobs would forever be that guy—the one who was too stupid, too reckless. No one would ever see him the same way.
And they shouldn’t.
What Jasmine hadn’t told her editor when he brought up this assignment was that she lost her sister to a drunk driver, and she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive someone for being so selfish.
A few of Nick’s belongings sat in the corner of the room, a plastic bag that looked like it held evidence of a crime. She’d seen enough effects bags in her time.
Glancing toward the door, she reached for the bag, sliding out Nick’s wallet. It was empty except for his driver’s license. Dropping it back into the bag, she pulled out the cell phone, ignoring the last item—a ring of keys.
The screen of the phone was cracked, but it powered on when she held down the side button. It was already unlocked as if someone had disabled the password, snooping before even she got to it.
Jasmine lowered herself into the chair next to the bed before thumbing through notifications, texts and calls Nick never received, but it was the email icon that drew her eye. She scrolled through mostly spam. The world had heard of his accident, so there weren’t emails of actual consequence.
Something made her click over to his sent emails to see who the last person he talked to was. There could be a story there. But there was nothing.
The guy’s phone was clean.
