Chapter 7
7
Sophie
F or a woman who once sang, danced, and acted her heart out on stage for hundreds—even thousands—of people, it’s strange how different reading for an audience of one can feel. Even with my eyes focused on the digital manuscript I’ve been narrating from August’s iPad, it’s impossible to ignore the way he studies me through a layer of soundproof glass like I’m a rare exhibit at a national museum. Despite my limited research on best practices for audiobook narrators , the whole vulnerability factor of reading while an incredibly attractive producer scrutinizes your every spoken word was conveniently left out of my findings.
As soon as I finish reading the last sentence of chapter six, I raise my hand, indicating my desire for a break. The heat index inside this recording booth requires a reprieve at least every two to three hours. To be fair, the booth was a comfortable temperature when I first arrived, but as the hours ticked on, my internal thermostat crept up. During our setup, August had kindly explained that the reason ing be hind no air vents in the booth has to do with the sensitivity of the microphone, which means the only way to effectively cool the space down is to open the door and filter the studio’s air conditioning inside whenever we’re not recording. It’s for this reason I will not be wearing denim in the foreseeable future. Nor will I be wearing my hair down. It’s currently secured into the updo I perfected in the seventh grade after watching Rory wield a BIC pen like a magical hair wand on Gilmore Girls .
When August nods in acknowledgment of my raised hand, I ask, “Do you mind if we take ten before we finish the last two chapters for today?” I pinch the fabric directly below the scooped neckline of my cotton tee in hopes of creating a breeze. Parched, I reach for my water bottle only to remember I drained my honey lemon tea during my last break.
“Certainly.” August’s voice comes through the speakers of the sound booth, and I feel the vibration of it buzz through me. “I need to run up to the house for a minute. Do you need a refill? Tea again?”
“Yes, please.” Even though what I’d really love is an ice-cold slushy. Why, oh why does ice have to be so terrible on the vocal cords? “Thank you.”
“You’re making great time. If you continue at this pace, we should finish ahead of schedule.”
“Fabulous.” I take his approval to heart, enjoying the easy communication between us today. From the moment I arrived this morning, August has been nothing but accommodating, often anticipating my needs before I voice them aloud. Whatever awkwardness was present during our first meeting hasn’t made an appearance today.
The obvious reason is Phantom’s absence, I suppose, but it’s hard not to wonder if it could also be related to the friendly texts we exchanged over the weekend. After the unpleasant shift I’d worked in the tasting room Saturday night, I’d escaped to the quiet of the pool house only to discover another text from August.
A ugust:
Good luck on your reading marathon tonight. I won’t be keeping pace with you, but I’ll cheer from the sidelines.
And for reasons I can’t explain, it was exactly what I needed in that moment. A distraction. A reminder that I wasn’t as alone as I felt. And from that point on, I kept him apprised of my progress. I texted him an emoji summary of each chapter, to which he cheered me on in similar fashion.
I bite back a grin, thinking of the ridiculousness of it all. How when I reached chapter thirty-nine and sent him a broken heart and at least a dozen cry-face emojis, he sent back a Band-Aid and an ice cream cone.
I stand from the stool where I’ve been perched for hours, and as soon as I step into the short hallway and feel the cool whisper of air across my sweat-damp skin, my brain reboots. With my empty water bottle in hand, I round the corner to where August sits at his soundboard.
He looks up at my approach. “I still can’t believe you managed to read that entire book in less than two days.”
“I think I did Mrs. Deitz’s third grade class proud.”
“You earned your superstar button for sure,” he says through slightly upturned lips. He begins to roll back in his chair when I hear a thud, followed by a sharp hiss. Immediately, my attention goes to his bandage-wrapped left hand. The same bandage he explained away earlier with the casual mention of a “yardwork incident” when I asked him what happened.
I’m no medical expert here, but I’d say between the excruciating look on his face and the unholy amount of gauze I saw piled in the restroom sink earlier, his little yardwork incident was more serious than he let on.
“August?” I step a little closer, noting the flush of his cheeks for the first time since I stepped out of the booth. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he manages through clenched teeth. “I just need to pop another Tylenol.” He blows out a hard breath. “I’ll bring you back some tea.”
With disbelieving eyes, I watch as he recovers his zip-up sweatshirt from the back of his chair and tries to pull it on—to no avail, seeing as he can’t seem to get his bandaged hand through the left sleeve.
Before I can dull my reaction, I audibly gasp at the sight of his fingers. They’re not okay. And neither is the man those fingers are connected to. Upon closer inspection, I see that August is not only flushed, but his forehead is glistening with sweat. There’s also a patchy rash spreading outside the boundary lines of his bandage.
And yet, he’s still working hard to pull on a jacket before he opens the door to a ninety-five degree summer day.
“August, I don’t think you’re okay.” Understatement .
“Can’t say this is my preferred way to wear a sweatshirt,” he deadpans while the left sleeve swings behind his back. Okay, so his sarcasm is still intact. That has to count for something, right?
I set my tumbler on his desk and retrieve the dangling sleeve for him. “Do you often wear sweatshirts in the middle of summer?”
He eyes me as if searching for a hidden meaning in my question, which concerns me almost as much as his choice in attire.
I try a different approach. “Do you feel chilled?”
“It’s the air conditioning,” he says automatically. “It’s colder than usual in here today.”
His gaze tracks mine as I confirm that the thermostat on the wall reflects a perfectly comfortable seventy-two degrees.
“August,” I say with caution, “I think you might have a fever.”
He scrunches his forehead, which causes a bead of sweat to stray from the corner of his right eyebrow down his cheek. “Doubtful. I haven’t had a fever since before my tonsils came out when I was eleven.”
“May I?” I lift the back of my hand to touch the forehead of a man I’ve known for less than two business days.
“Sophie, I don’t have a fever, I—”
I flinch at the searing heat radiating from him and then imme diately dr op my gaze to his bare arm. Up close, the trailing rash looks even more menacing, and in an instant I recall where I’ve seen something similar. A couple years back, while on the set of Matilda , our prop director stepped through an old windowpane during the intermission set change. A few of our bigger guys carried her to a restroom, where we removed the glass and cleaned and bandaged her wound. But within forty-eight hours, she was admitted to the hospital with a critical staph infection. My stomach sours at the memory of the show’s director sharing the news about her grueling recovery.
“You need to get to a hospital,” I say without preamble.
“I’ll be fine after I take some Tylenol. My last dose wore off a couple hours ago.”
“You see all this redness here?” I point to the rash crawling up his wrist. “There’s a serious infection that can cause this. It could be why you have a fever, too, and why your fingers look like Ball Park hotdogs.”
He angles his head. “That’s a little dramatic.”
I try not to recoil at his word choice, one of my father’s favorites for me. That and attention-seeker . “Not as dramatic as losing your fingers will be if we don’t get you to a hospital soon.” I assess his half-dressed state and sweaty forehead for a second time and realize he is in no shape to drive himself anywhere. “I can drive you to the ER unless you have someone else who can get here quickly.”
He slow blinks. Twice. “Tell you what, how ’bout we reevaluate all this after we finish up your session in the booth. That should give the Tylenol some time to kick in.”
Something hot and irrational begins to build in the base of my belly. “No.”
“No?” He wipes a hand on his clammy forehead.
“No. There’s no way I’m going back in that booth with you out here looking like ... like that.” I point to his hand and then to his face. “I can drive you, or I can call 9-1-1 and get a paramedic out here to drive you. Your choice.”
T his seems to shake him out of whatever fever stupor he’s living in. “Fine.” He huffs. “I’ll drive—”
“No, you won’t.” I cut him off. “I’m sorry to be so blunt, but you look like you’ve been hungover for three days.” I glance around his desk. “Now, do you have your wallet on you? Your phone? Anything else you might need?”
He studies me with an incredulity that leaves me ninety-nine percent certain he’s about to tell me to go home and never come back.
“Top drawer, left-hand side for the wallet,” he all but sighs. “Phone’s in my back pocket.”
“Perfect.” I collect his wallet for him and then assist with his sweatshirt dilemma, tucking it over his left shoulder before I race back to the sound booth for my backpack. It’s only after I lock the studio door behind us and we’re walking down his driveway that I remember my mode of transportation parked on the curb.
He stops short, slowly dragging his gaze from the street back to me. “Either my fever has reached the hallucination level, or that Escalade is being swallowed by a giant bottle of wine.”
It’s my turn to wince as I walk him down the remainder of the driveway to the passenger side. “Unfortunately, it’s not your fever.”
If I were to rate August’s pain-free acting abilities from the time he climbed into the Escalade—or the Wine-Calade , as he deemed it—to when he asked me to dig through his wallet for his license at the check-in station, I’d give his performance a solid 8.5 out of 10. It’s not until I had to help him fill out his paperwork because he couldn’t even grip the clipboard that I saw the first real cracks in his armor.
He might have been able to deflect his escalating pain on the drive over with sarcastic jabs about my vehicle, but there is only so long a person can keep up the all-is-well ruse while infection invades their body. Outside of the one-word answers he gave me for the questionnaire, his brand of quiet is the kind rooted in deep c oncentration. Even now, as the nurse calls him back, he struggles to stand from the waiting room chair. His jaw is clenched so tightly I worry his molars might fuse together.
“Mr. Tate?” The young nurse calls out again as she lifts up on her tiptoes to sweep the continent of people between her and the empty corner where we’ve set up camp. I wave at her to catch her eye. The last thing August needs is to be marked as a no-show and passed up for a runny nose and cough combination.
Once he finally gets upright, August sways on his feet, and I quickly grab his right elbow to stabilize him.
“I got you,” I say, gripping a forearm that is no stranger to a weight set. “We’re almost there.”
He blinks down at me. “We haven’t moved.”
“Quite astute of you, yes.” I smile up at him. “Just a second.”
He grunts as I reach behind us with lightning-quick reflexes for the sweatshirt he shrugged off earlier along with the backpack that holds his wallet and the majority of my earthly possessions. And then I re-hook my arm through his and lead the way toward a nurse that looks like she’s young enough to be here on a high school field trip.
August’s breathing is labored as we trek across a room that might as well be the Great Valley in The Land Before Time . When we finally reach our destination, I’ve prepped my face with a reassuring smile in order to minimize whatever awkwardness August might feel when I say good-bye and pass him off to the nurse. According to the cheap clock over the doorway, I have little more than an hour before it’s time to jump on my first girls-night-in video chat with Dana. We’ve finally found a time that works for us both to stream Gilmore Girls and spend the evening pretending we don’t live three thousand miles away from one another. I’ve missed those nights beyond what I knew was even possible.
Only, when August’s gaze skips back to mine, it’s not embarrassment that pinches the corners of his eyes. It’s something else. Something I can feel more than I can name—because I’ve been where he is now. Not in an ER with an infected cut on my hand, but having t o face something hard and uncertain all on my own. Before I met Dana. Before I understood what a gift it is to have a true friend.
My chest pulls taut at the sobering realization that he’ll be alone for whatever’s going to happen to him beyond these doors.
“Are you August Tate?” the young woman in powder-pink nursing scrubs asks as she glances up from her clipboard.
He gives a short verbal confirmation.
“Alright,” she says, before a distinct look of alarm crosses her features as she takes him in. “Actually, let me call Bruce for a—”
She’s mid-sentence when a man in navy scrubs appears with a wheelchair. An obvious pro at his job, he has August squared away in the seat in record time. And before I can think to utter a word, the brakes are released and August is being wheeled through the automatic doors that lead into the part of the hospital reserved for patients and their loved ones.
I don’t know what I was expecting to happen at this point—a good-bye hug? A three-point wish-you-well speech? A tip for being his rideshare driver? But as the double doors swish closed behind him, I remember his sweatshirt draped over my arm, which suddenly feels like the most critical thing in the world to return to him. I stride ahead for the doors where Nurse Hadley is still posted with her clipboard. With any luck, she’ll be able to get it to him. Instead, she simply waves her badge over the security box on the wall. The doors swoosh open.
“You change your mind?” She smiles. “Go on ahead. Bruce will get you a family pass so you can stay as long as you want.” She doesn’t bother to wait for a response before she announces the next name on her list.
A thousand thoughts ping against my skull, most of which are a variation of You are a stranger. Don’t you dare try to pass as his family when you’ve only known him for—
And then I’m racing to catch them.
Bruce, a nurse of maybe forty with dark skin and even darker eyes, barely twists his neck in the direction of my pattering feet, as if he was expecting me. Perhaps my I-could-be-family vibes are s tronger than I thought. I glance at August, who looks as if he’s losing a battle against consciousness. The groan that passes through his lips as the wheelchair jostles his body is unlike any sound I’ve heard him make so far. My empathy twists into a knot.
“Will he be okay?” I whisper to Bruce, who drives the wheelchair with impressive speed. But Bruce has other questions on his mind.
“Do you know when he last ate or drank something?”
We take a sharp left, where Bruce flashes his badge at another automatic door and our surroundings instantly change to the fast-paced environment of an emergency room. Nurses and doctors cross paths, and machines beep and whiz from every direction.
Bruce rotates enough to hike an eyebrow, and it’s only then that I remember he’s still waiting for my answer.
“Oh, um...” I think back to our car ride, and then before that to the recording studio. There was an open energy drink on his desk when I arrived at nine, but I don’t remember him taking a sip of anything after my first break. And there was no sign of food to be found. But I don’t want to guess wrong and put August at risk. “I don’t think he’s had anything since around ten this morning.”
“Any allergies?”
“None that he knows of.” It’s the same answer August gave me in the waiting room an hour ago. “And he’s only had one surgery—a tonsillectomy when he was eleven. No complications to anesthesia.”
“What about pain medication? When did he last take something today?”
I recall what August told the first triage nurse at the check-in desk. “He had a dose of Tylenol when he woke around six this morning. But nothing since.”
Bruce nods as if we’re equals in this real-life episode of Grey’s Anatomy when the real truth is that only one of us is authorized to discuss August’s medical history. The other is a big fat fraud.
As soon as Bruce throws back the curtain of a tiny exam room with space enough for one bed and one chair, all five of my senses slap me in the face at once. What am I doing back here? I barely even know this guy.
“ I’ll get a quick check of his vitals for Dr. Rock, and then I can get you checked in as well, Mrs.—”
“Sophie.” I interrupt using my best stage smile, hoping it will ward off any follow-up questions about my non-relation to August.
At the sound of my name, the patient in question lifts his fever-glazed eyes to mine. There’s a small wrinkle in his brow, as if he’s as confused by my presence as I am, and I offer him a little wave that I hope translates to I’m so sorry for invading your privacy and also, I don’t want you to be alone . The moment is short-lived as Bruce steps between us to help August onto the bed.
“August,” Bruce says in an authoritative tone. “Can you manage getting a gown on without assistance?”
August lifts his chin an inch and gives him a look that would cripple a lesser man.
“No,” he hisses through gritted teeth.
“Then do I have your consent to assist you?”
When August confirms, I start toward the curtain, poised to walk out, when Bruce stops me. “Would you mind holding that gown open for me, Sophie?” He gestures to the limp strip of fabric at the foot of the bed. And then to August he says, “We’ll try and make this as pain-free as possible.”
When Bruce works to stretch the fabric of August’s T-shirt wide enough for his swollen arm to fit through, we hear a labored “Just ... cut it off.”
Bruce wastes no time with this request. He cuts a long slit in both sleeves and then one straight line from the neck down to the waist. The shocking flash of August’s toned chest steals the breath straight out of me, and I quickly hold up the printed gown like a shield until Bruce’s adept hands take it from me and finish the job.
Within three minutes of Dr. Rock’s examination of August’s infected palm, the term cellulitis is spoken multiple times to Bruce, followed by the phrases wound flush and IV antibiotics . None of which sound great. Unfortunately, I’m not wrong about that.
The following hour or so is a blur of adrenaline and anguish—and I’m not even the one who had to endure it. Sometime during t he flush-out portion of August’s treatment plan, I reached for his right hand and held on tight as he hissed in pain. I couldn’t say if it lasted two minutes or two hours, but even if I live to be a hundred, it would be too soon to see a repeat of that procedure.
Bruce was just setting August up with his IV meds when I stepped out to get the cup of ice he requested. And to take a breather from the intensity of the emergency room drama. Truth is, I’ve been around enough realistic-looking medical props in theater not to flinch at the sight of blood or gore, but watching someone writhe in pain when all you can do is hold their hand and tell them they’re going to be okay takes a toll on a person.
As soon as I escape into the quiet to locate the ice machine, my nerves take a collective sigh. Hospital cup in hand, I flatten my back against the wall and feel the cold cinder blocks calm me from the outside in. He’s going to be fine. Everything is fine.
I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and repeat the words several times over in my head before I’m able to fill the insulated cup with ice. I’ve just turned toward the hallway that leads to August’s temporary quarters when my phone rings.
And its only then I remember.
Dana.
I scramble to maneuver the cup from my dominant hand so I can answer before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”
“Hey, girl.” Her face fills my screen. Her hair is in a high ponytail, and I recognize the bright coral top she’s wearing because I have the same one. We bought matching jammies last summer that read: Vacay in my pjs . “You ready? I want to hear all about your first day! I totally splurged and bought the expensive root beer you like for my float tonight and even made our favorite snack mix to celebrate.” She lifts a bowl of assorted savory and sweet treats and shakes it. “And before you ask, no. I did not buy pickle ice cream—”
“Oh, Dana, I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I tuck myself into the small alcove near the ice machine. “But I’m not at home right now. There was a bit of an emergency.”
“ Emergency?” She leans closer to her laptop screen, eyes going wide. “Where are you?”
“The hospital.”
“ What ?” she yells, and I hear the snack bowl she just showed me clunk down hard onto the coffee table I bought at a flea market. “Why? Are you hurt? Sick? Did something—”
“It’s not me,” I amend quickly. “I drove a friend here.” Did holding someone’s hand during an agonizing procedure qualify as a friendship? “He has a pretty serious infection in his palm from an untreated cut, so I offered to take him in.”
She blinks. Stares. And blinks again. “Wait, does this friend also happen to be Hot Producer Guy with the naturally beach-blond hair and sultry blue eyes?”
I nod, half regretting my description of August to her last week even though it all still holds one hundred percent true. Though, to be fair, hot and sultry were her word choices, not mine. Still, August and I are coworkers. And even if this job is only meant as a placeholder for the next few months, he is more than his pretty head of hair and ridiculous set of sea-blue eyes. He’s a professional. I make a mental note to speak about him as such from now on—even if the only one I speak to is my best friend.
“He’s on meds now and is already doing better. I don’t think I’ll be here too much longer, but I’m not sure how he’s getting home yet. He mentioned he has a ride coming, but so far I haven’t seen anyone. Can I text you when I leave? Maybe we’ll still have a little time before you have to get to sleep.”
There’s a slight wiggle to her eyebrows as she says, “You’re there with him alone? Just the two of you?”
“We’re in a public hospital, inside a tiny space with a curtain for a door,” I confirm. “If I had to guess, there are likely a thousand people somewhere within the vicinity of this building right now.”
“Still,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “That sounds more romantic than the last date I was on.”
“Let me assure you, this is no date.” I laugh. “August is connected to a drip line and is wearing an open-backed hospital gown.”
S he does a little hop on the sofa and squeals. “Giiiirrrl, did you peek?”
“Oh my gosh, Dana . Stop .” I hit the volume button on the side of the phone until her voice is nearly muted. “And no , I did not.” At least, I didn’t try to. She’s still laughing. “Okay, okay, I should probably jump off and bring him back his water cup. But I’m sorry this wasn’t what either of us planned tonight. You forgive me?”
She gives me her best contemplative face. “Send me a pic of him in that gown and I’ll forgive you.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath on that. I’ll text you later. Love you.”
My finger hovers over the red disconnect icon when she nods and says, “You’re a super good friend, Soph. He’s lucky to have you.”
Her words whittle their way from my ears to my heart. And even though I know there is nothing intimate going on between August and me, the slight flutter in my chest is as unexpected as it is curious. I stare down at the darkened phone in my left hand and then to the hospital cup cradled in the nook of my right arm and resolve to help August secure a ride home from the hospital as soon as possible.
Once I’m in front of the curtain blocking me from August’s room, I pull on a pleasant expression and clear my throat. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in,” he replies in an almost whimsical sounding voice I don’t recognize.
When I enter the familiar space again, Dr. Rock is with him, standing at the computer.
She twists around, her expression kind and open. “Oh good, I was hoping I’d get a word with you. It’s Sophie, isn’t it?”
I nod and then slowly look at the man lounging on his hospital bed as if reclined on a beach chair at some exotic resort and not in a hectic emergency room. Why on earth is he grinning like that? And what exactly has he told her about me? Then again, what does he really even know about me? That I own a cat he despises? That I can speak Woodland Creature on demand? Or perhaps the most curious truth of the day, that we’ve been coworkers for all of seven hours.
“ I just told August that he owes you a steak dinner.” She leans in my direction and stage whispers, “Or at the least something expensive that requires a reservation and a fancy dress.”
This clears nothing up.
But then Mr. Relaxation himself chimes in. “Doc says you saved my life.”
“Oh, no.” I balk and shake my head. “All I did was—”
“Convince him to come in when he’d convinced himself he’d be fine to wait it out at home with a couple of Tylenols?” Dr. Rock concludes. “Cellulitis is a serious infection, and if left unattended, it can easily turn septic. He’s lucky he has someone like you in his life.”
Hearing a similar sentiment from Dana was one thing, but hearing it from a doctor on August’s behalf is more than a little awkward. Despite what the visitor sticker on my shirt declares, I’m not actually a part of his life. It only takes a second for me to dig out the improv skills and apply humor. “Honestly”—I lift my chin in August’s direction—“he’s just lucky he came willingly.”
His laugh is as uninhibited as it is contagious, and even Dr. Rock chuckles at the two of us. I study the drip line in August’s arm, and it’s only then that I realize there are two bags of fluid being pumped into him through his IV. One is the antibiotics he needs; the other must be whatever is making him smile as if his usual frown is a farfetched concept.
“Somehow I doubt that an unconscious male is the strangest cargo that SUV has transported,” he says. “It looks like hotel art on wheels.”
“I wish I could say it’s the drugs talking,” I tell the doctor, “but he isn’t wrong. My brother designed the advertisement wrap so...” I shrug like, What more can I say ?
“You two are officially my favorite people on this floor today.” Dr. Rock beams at us both before dropping back into her professional voice. “I sent in the prescription for oral antibiotics to your pharmacy, August.” She then points to the fuller of the two IV bags. “As soon as your antibiotic drip is finished, Bruce will be back in to explain the protocol for your at-home wound care.”
“ What’s that?” I ask.
“August will need to have his wound cleaned and bandaged at least once a day, preferably twice.” Once again, she looks at me as if my connection to her patient is something it’s not. “Don’t worry, Bruce can show you all the tricks. But considering you watched the whole procedure earlier, I’m guessing you’re not the squeamish type.” She pats August on the leg. “Once again, you should consider yourself lucky. Not everybody has someone at home who is capable or willing to assist.”
Thankfully, when the inevitable awkward pause at her assumption crash lands in the center of the exam room, August is with it enough to come to the rescue.
“What’s the alternative?” he asks in a curious tone.
“That would depend on your insurance. But likely a daily visit to your local urgent care or possibly home health care.”
“Wow,” August says under his breath. “That would be unfortunate.”
“Exactly,” Dr. Rock says as she pulls off her gloves, tosses them in the receptacle, and moves to exit through the curtain. As she pulls it open, she winks in my direction. “Which is why I highly recommend you make that fancy dinner reservation for when all this is over. Take care, you two. And thanks for the laughs.”
When the curtain swishes closed behind her and we’re alone, I feel August’s gaze return to me, but I’m not quite brave enough to look at him yet. If he unnerved me this morning when there was a shield of glass between us at the studio, then I don’t have the right vocabulary for whatever his gaze is doing to me now.
“You stayed,” August says in a tone I don’t recognize. It’s gentle and light and full of an emotion that sounds a whole lot like gratitude.
“It seemed like you could use the company.”
A beat passes before he says, “Or maybe you were just hoping to see me in this sweet minidress.”
I bite my bottom lip at that. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that those faded blue and yellow stars do a lot for your complexion.”
“Do you think Bruce will notice if I wear it home?”
“ Honestly, I don’t think Bruce misses much of anything around here.”
“True.” August chuckles. “But I suppose the same could be said for you. I’m not sure how many people would be observant enough to spot my symptoms as warning signs for infection the way you did.”
Something like awe laces his words, and when I look up, he points to the chair beside his bed. I sit without hesitation and then wonder how it is I feel so at ease with August when that’s rarely the case with any man I encounter. Even those I’m related to.
My knee brushes the edge of the mattress where he rubs the thin blanket stretched over his legs between his index finger and thumb. It’s the same hand I held while August blanched white and fought to stay conscious.
“I hope this goes without saying, but I don’t expect you to help me with this after I’m home.” He lifts his left arm where the IV is flowing into his bandaged hand and wrist. “Wound care is not a part of your narration package at the studio. I made a stupid decision, and now I have to pay for it. I’ll figure it out.”
I can tell he’s trying to minimize the situation. But having filled out August’s medical questionnaire for him, I know too much. The self-employment insurance he carries is for major medical only. None of this is covered. I’d guess daily wound care isn’t either. Knowing the balance in my own bank account at the moment, I’d be freaking out if the situation were reversed.
“Is there someone who lives close by who could help? A friend? A neighbor, maybe?”
“Not really,” he says tiredly. “Gabby won’t be back home for two weeks.”
Gabby? August lives with a woman? How had I missed that?
“Is she ... on a trip or something?”
He takes a sip of his water and nods in confirmation.
I try to play off my disappointment at the thought of a woman in his life. Usually I’m pretty good at picking up on that vibe. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long have the two of you been together?”
August lowers his jug of ice water, and I watch as his lips curve n orth. “Guess that depends on how you define together . Technically speaking, she’s been an important part of my life for a little over a decade, but I only moved in two years ago.”
“A decade?” Shock spikes my volume. “Were you like, high school sweethearts or something?”
He barks out a laugh. “Try brother and sister.”
An icy hot sensation muffles my hearing. “What?”
“Gabby’s sixteen. She’s my sister.”
“Oh. Oh .” Even for a professional actress, I know my oh does not sound nearly as casual as I intend. “You live with your teenage sister—well, that’s fun.”
“It’s something for sure.” His eyelids grow heavy, but his grin continues to hold a tender component I don’t want to walk away from. “She’ll like you.”
A flutter spasms in my lower abdomen at his soft, unhindered words. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you’re both . . .” His breathing slows. “Spunky.”
My mouth falls open. “Spunky?” I snicker, as this is not a word I often hear, and yet I kind of love it. Even if August is too intoxicated to remember saying it tomorrow.
Eyes closed, he nods. “I can be stubborn.”
“You don’t say,” I tease.
“See?” A lopsided smile fills his face. “ Spunky . And still you managed to get me here somehow. Not a small feat.”
“Guess you’re not the only one who can be stubborn at times.”
He’s quiet for a moment before he peeks at me with one eye. “You should go home, Sophie.”
“What?”
“I’m a big boy,” he says on the tail end of a yawn. “I’ll call a rideshare once I’m discharged. I’m good now, thank you.”
“Are you firing me as your chauffeur? I can assure you I’ve never had a single ticket or accident.” Of course, I don’t tell him I took off driving for the last eight years.
“No, I’m giving you back your night.” Eyes closed again, he makes an exaggerated shooing motion with his bandaged hand. It’s utterly r idiculous. “Now go. I’ll see you tomorrow at the studio. Unless you decide to quit after today. Completely understandable.”
I rub the chill from my arms and then spot his sweatshirt hanging on a hook by the curtain. I pull it on and hunker back down into the seat. “What if I enjoy hospitals?”
“Liar,” he says. “Nobody enjoys hospitals.”
“You definitely seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“For the moment,” he says almost incoherently. “But I’m not usually the patient. It’s much harder to be the one in your seat.”
I scrunch my eyebrows in, wondering at such a statement. But then I feel something in the pocket of his zip-up sweatshirt. Something small and crinkly. I pull it out and then have to bite back my gasp. In my palm lies a yellow star shape cut out of construction paper. Superstar Reader is written across the front in black Sharpie with one point pricked through by a safety pin.
He made me a badge.
I look from the fragile paper star in my hand to the sleeping man in the bed and decide right then that I don’t care how long it takes the drip line to empty or for Bruce to bring his discharge papers. Something tells me August could use the rest.
And inexplicably, I want to be the one here when he wakes up.
I slip the star into the back pocket of my purse to keep it from tearing, text Dana an update and a plan to reschedule soon, and watch a self-proclaimed stubborn stranger sleep.
I don’t know how conscious he is when he slides his free arm over the top of the blanket to where my hand rests, but when his warm skin covers mine, my heart feels a bit like that fragile paper star in the pocket of my purse.
And for the first time since meeting August, I think I might be in real trouble.