Page 66 of Smooth Sailing
The rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she strode down the hall. She slowed at his room. Her fingers trembled as they brushed the cold metal of the door’s handle. The acrid scent of disinfectant permeated the air, a stark reminder of where she was and why. She pushed the door open with a soft click.
Her gazefell on Max. He was sitting up in bed, and the sight hit her like a discordant note in a familiar melody—recognizable yet jarringly wrong. His face was a canvas of scrapes and bruises, stark against his paler-than-usual skin. A nasty gash ran along his hairline, held together by a row of neat stitches. A deep purple bruise bloomed across his left cheekbone.
He wore a hospital gown, but his clothes were folded neatly on a nearby chair, ready for him to change. A small bandage on his arm marked where an IV had likely been earlier. His usually meticulous hair was messy, with a small patch shaved near the stitches.
“Hey,” he said, his voice rough but stronger than she’d expected. He attempted a smile, but it turned into a wince.
“Oh, Max,” she whispered as if speaking too loudly might shatter this surreal moment.
“It looks worse than it is, I promise. Doc says I can go home tonight.” He glanced at the clock opposite his bed. “Well, this morning, I guess. You shouldn’t have come. I’m sure you have an early start for Traverse City. I could’ve called my mom or one of the guys.”
She brushed aside his objections, her gaze darting between Max and the discharge papers on the bedside table. “Are you . . . Are you sure you’re ready to leave?”
“Yeah, doc says I’m good to go.” He reached for his clothes and grimaced.
“Let me help,” she said, snatching the pile before he could protest. She clutched it to her chest like a shield.
“Thanks.” He frowned. “You okay?”
She nodded, not meeting his gaze, and busied herself with his clothes. “You told me you were tired,” she said to the shirt she was unfolding, her voice barely audible.
“What was that?” he asked, leaning forward slightly.
“Nothing, I just . . .” she exhaled. “Do you need anything else? Water for the ride home? I could ask the nurse—”
“Paloma, I’m okay.”
She nodded, still unable to meet his concerned eyes. Her bottom lip trembled, and she caught it between her teeth. She stilled, his shirt clutched tightly against her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I demanded you come by my house. You’d told me you were tired,” she whispered, swiping at a falling tear.
“Come here. Please.” He patted the spot on the bed next to him.
She perched on the edge, her gaze fixed on the linoleum floor. The harsh hospital lighting cast shadows that danced across her vision, mirroring the chaotic swirl inside her. He put his arm around her, and she leaned into him. “This is on me. I chose to drive.”
“When you didn’t show up—”
“You were pissed?” he teased.
A watery laugh escaped her. “Yes,” she admitted. “But then I heard you were in the hospital, I . . . God, Max. I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.” Her hands stilled, and she forced herself to look at him. “I guess I’m just . . . I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Hey.” He cupped her cheeks and kissed her softly. “I’m okay. Really. And I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” She leaned away, looking into his eyes, heavy-lidded from the medication.
He smiled, but it came out lopsided. “Let’s get out of here. You should get some rest. Big day tomorrow, right?”
The remainder of her impending departure was a physical weight pressing on her chest. She averted her gaze, focusing on their intertwined hands instead. “Right,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Big day.”
The looming departure seemed to suck all the air from the room. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the inky night was slipping away.
Her chest tightened, and a feeling akin to homesickness washed over her. But that didn’t make sense; traveling had never bothered her. In fact, she usually considered it a perk.
Unless . . .
The realization hit her like a sucker punch, leaving her winded. Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was a person. It was Max.
