Page 81 of Single-Minded
Carter reads the card:
MICHAEL—HOPE YOU’RE FEELING BETTER.
BEST WISHES, DANIEL BOUDREAUX
“Awww,” teases Michael, “Your boyfriend sent me a bouquet of sandwiches.” Everyone laughs and my skin flushes scarlet.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say.
“That’s not what I hear,” says Michael playfully. Darcy remains uncharacteristically silent. “Santiago told me all about it,” says Michael. “He says you two were steamy on the dance floor last weekend.” Santiago grins sheepishly at me.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting quietly about now?” I ask Michael.
“I heard it too, from the man himself,” gushes Carter. “Daniel Boudreaux is smitten.”
“Well, he’s something, all right,” says Darcy. I shoot her a stern glance across the room. She gets the message and doesn’t say another word on the matter.
“He’s a client,” I say. “Nothing more.”
“Well,” says Carter, “I’ve known the man for ten years and I’ve never seen him fall this hard for anyone.”
“Look at this, there’s shrimp and crab salad, po’boys, this one looks like ham and Brie,” says Darcy digging through the basket, mercifully changing the subject. “Who’s hungry?”
“I am,” says Fred, heading toward the food. Sam starts pulling plates, napkins, and silverware out of the basket, laying them out on the table. Fred selects a fried oyster po’boy.
“Mmm, delicious,” Fred says as he bites into the sandwich.
“Michael, do you want anything?” I ask.
“No, I’m not hungry at all. Maybe leftover from the anesthesia or something. You all dig in, though,” says Michael. He groans a bit as he shifts his weight in the bed.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Do you want me to call a nurse?”
“I’m just really sore all over,” he says, “the pain seems to be getting worse.” He smiles. “I feel like I’ve been in a car accident or something.”
“You’re hilarious,” I say, pushing the nurse call button on the TV remote.
“I love this bread,” says Darcy, biting into a shrimp salad sandwich. “Crunchy on the outside, light and melty on the inside.”
“Daniel makes it himself, traditional New Orleans style,” I say.
“I’ll say one thing,” says Darcy with her mouth full, “that boy can cook.”
Carter and Santiago each help themselves to sandwiches. Carter chooses the ham and Brie, and Santiago picks something that looks like roast beef.
The seven of us perch in various places around the room, me at the end of Michael’s hospital bed. Darcy hands me a crab salad sandwich, one of my favorites. The room goes silent as we enjoy the food.
“Okay, okay, give me a bite of that,” Michael says to me. I move nearer to the head of the bed and hold the sandwich out for him to take a bite.
“Ooh, that’s good,” says Michael. “That’s maybe the best sandwich I’ve ever had.” He takes another bite. “Don’t break up with him just yet, Alex. I think Santiago and I might need him to cater a housewarming.”
I almost choke on my salad when he says that, but before I have a chance to ask Michael what in the hell he’s talking about, a stout nurse with gray hair pulled into a severe bun enters the room. She makes her way through Darcy, Sam, Santiago, and Carter and disconnects Michael’s IV line, without so much as a greeting. She hangs a new IV bag on Michael’s stand, pushes a few buttons on the monitor, and then begins taking his blood pressure.
“Would you like a sandwich?” I ask. “We’ve got plenty.”
“No thank you,” she answers curtly. “Mr. Miller has been through a severe trauma and an extensive surgery. He needs to rest. No more than one visitor at a time for the next day or two.” She’s like a drill sergeant. “Say your goodbyes.”
“I’m fine, really,” says Michael, who seems to get woozier before our eyes.
