Chapter 3
Hospitals are terrible places. Sure, they do good, but they contain a lot of emotion—sorrow, stress, anger. Walking through the automatic doors is enough to make me run back to my car, but I need to see Brody with my own eyes to know if he’s okay. In his line of work, that isn’t a guarantee.
I head for the ICU, my chest tightening with each step down the blue and white checkered halls until I reach Brody’s room. Through the closed door, I hear the faint sound of rhythmic beeping. Good beeps. Not a steady hum followed by a rush of doctors and shouts of “clear” paired with a loud zap.
It could be worse. It could certainly be worse.
I reach for the locket hanging from my neck, running it back and forth across its chain as I take several steadying breaths. It doesn’t help. Nothing will until I see Brody. At least then I’d know what the woman who called meant by “be prepared for extensive injuries.”
I close my eyes, and my hand shakes on the door handle as I count to three before pushing open the door.
“Abby.”
I wince and open my eyes as the nickname falls out of Brody’s mouth on a long exhale while he struggles to sit up. He’s bruised—more purple than tan, with flecks of red that must be blood. His blood.
“You shouldn’t move,” I say, all autopilot. I’m no doctor, but even I know being hooked up to machines while beyond battered and bruised is a good indicator of a person’s current fragility. Plus, he’s got an arm in a cast and a brace around his neck.
My gaze darts to the powder-blue walls displaying framed watercolors of white and yellow flowers. I’ve never seen big, bold, brave Brody look so wounded. So vulnerable. Not that I’d ever say it aloud. He’d hate that. Honestly, so would I.
I clear my throat before crossing the remaining few steps into the room.
That’s when I process we aren’t alone. A man is at the foot of the bed, slouching over a tablet.
His dark hair is held in place under a charcoal beanie it’s far too hot for.
When he finally looks up, I freeze before my attention whips back to Brody, who is still injured in the hospital bed.
By the time I turn back to the man with the beanie, my mind has caught up with reality, reminding me Brody is a twin.
An identical twin.
Nathan, or Nate as Brody usually calls him, has Brody’s steely gray eyes masked under a wallop of dark hair.
While Brody’s long hair is pulled into a low bun (part of his signature look and recently featured in a clickbait-y article titled “30 of the Sexiest Man Buns Out There”), Nate’s hair hangs in loose waves secured only by his charcoal beanie.
They have the same square jaws—Brody’s appearing slightly sharper in its bareness while a layer of stubble softens Nate’s—and pronounced cheekbones most women can only hope to achieve with extensive contouring.
Nate nods a greeting. “Can you believe he’s making me read him this shit?” Nate waves a tablet in my direction. The screen features a tabloid site Brody reads religiously. “Aloud. What if someone were to hear me?”
“He’s hurt.” There’s an edge to my voice neither brother catches.
“Not his eyes.” Nate shoots a pointed look in Brody’s direction. “His brain, sure, but that’s been a lifelong affliction. And the rest of him has certainly seen better days.”
“Hilarious.” Brody makes a hacking noise that resembles a dry laugh. “This is serious, though. I need to make sure no one has caught wind of this yet.” He uses his sling-free left arm to make a half-hearted gesture at his body. “Talk about terrible publicity in my field, huh?”
There’s a palpable shift in the room, and Nate seems to consider picking up the tablet to read again, so I cut in.
“What the hell happened, Brody?”
“Told you she was going to ask that,” Brody says to Nate. “Didn’t I tell you?”
Nate glances at me before nodding at Brody. “Would be pretty weird if she didn’t, Bro.”
“Brody,” I snap, getting his attention while trying my best to ignore Nate altogether. It’s for the best, given what I know of him. “Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t even know where to start.”
“The beginning.” I steel myself for whatever I’m about to hear. “I need you to start at the beginning.”
Lucky. That’s how Brody describes his paragliding accident. But what’s lucky about a broken arm, fractured elbow, sprained ankle, internal bleeding, and nearly drowning? Not to mention the extensive bruising.
“Statistically speaking, very lucky,” Brody clarifies. It doesn’t help to hear he embarked on the sport knowing full well the chances of a fatal injury. “Besides, it’s not the first time I’ve gone paragliding.”
“First time you’ve gotten hurt doing it,” Nate adds unhelpfully.
Brody shrugs with his free arm. “Could’ve been worse.”
Nate hums in agreement. “Yeah, your ponytail could have fallen out, and you’d have had no hope of fixing it with your elbow all banged up. Imagine the photos!”
“I’d just pretend to be you then.”
Nate shakes his head. “No way would anyone think I was dumb enough to try something like that.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, hoping to curb the building tension headache. How can they carry on a normal conversation—even joke—at a time like this?
“Can you two cut it out for a minute and think about what this means?” My cheeks are warm with irritation and undoubtedly splotchy, knowing how sensitive my skin is, as both men go quiet.
“Brody, you have your show coming up. How do you expect to film it when you’re here?
I had to quit my job.” I let the words sink in, registering the surprise on Brody’s face.
“Not really a choice given the Travis thing,” I say, hoping it’s enough for Brody to get my meaning. I don’t want to confess my demotion in front of Nate or clarify my relationship with Brody is partially to blame. “I can still manage your brand, but not at BrandMe.”
I pause at the confusion on Brody’s face, then issue a way out I hope he doesn’t take. “Unless you want to stay. I know you have a contract?—”
He’s swift to interrupt. “If you’re not there, neither am I.”
His words fill me with pride, but it doesn’t make me forget what’s really happening here. “Today was my last day, Brody is injured, and you two are sitting here cracking jokes as if there’s something to laugh about!”
“Technically, Brody is lying here,” Nate supplies with a serious expression. I narrow my eyes to get him to stop whatever game he’s playing, and he meets me somewhere halfway. “But to be fair, I am, in fact, sitting.”
“Abby,” Brody says with a softness to his voice, even as he uses a nickname I hate.
Although maybe I haven’t expressed that enough?
Now isn’t the time to remind him. “Of course I’ve thought about what this means.
I’ve worked far too hard on Rush to push off season three when we’re finally gaining traction.
Not to mention the monster streaming deal! ”
Not exactly what I mean, but I let Brody continue.
“That’s why I never use my real name when booking off-season excursions. Explains why the paparazzi aren’t all over this already.” Brody looks back at the tablet Nate set on the foot of the bed. “Thank goodness.”
Nate snorts. “Dude, you’re not even a C-lister. No one is paying attention to you or your happenings.”
“I’ll have you know, I’ve been featured in at least three mags.”
“Featured is generous. Besides, that was over a year ago and only because you dated a supermodel for all of five minutes,” Nate says before remembering I’m in the room. “No offense to Abigail.”
“Offense taken,” I say, though the mention of Brody’s supermodel ex brings up feelings of jealousy rather than offense.
Compared to her, what do I really offer Brody and his budding fame besides ideas for personal branding?
I turn back to Brody. “Current fame level aside, your brand is built on Rush and your daring feats. Word of your injury and the story behind it will get out when we don’t show up in Fiji. ”
“If I’m the one to alert the press, what sort of financial reward can I expect? Think I can score a crisp $5?” Nate asks Brody, who rolls his eyes before staring at the window, even though the blinds are closed.
“Abigail is right. I told the nurses not to let anyone else know I’m here, including our parents and sister, but it’s only a matter of time before someone pieces everything together if I don’t show up on set.
And I can’t exactly film in this state.” He attempts to hold up his fractured elbow, as if we aren’t clear about what state he’s referring to, but only ends up wincing in pain.
There’s another consideration. If Brody doesn’t go to Fiji, what am I supposed to do? My insensitive line of thinking surprises even me, and I bite my tongue in time to keep any of it from slipping out.
That doesn’t stop Nate from jumping in with an insensitive comment of his own. “Not famous enough for a stunt double, huh? Guess you’ll have to wait and heal like the rest of us mere mortals.”
“Or…” Brody’s head snaps around quickly despite the supposedly precautionary neck brace. He raises his eyebrows at Nate, and an unspoken message passes between them.
Nate’s response is fast and firm. “No way.”
Brody shifts on the bed, struggling to sit up straight enough to catch Nate’s eye again. “You didn’t even let me get a word in first!”
“You’ve gotten plenty of words in. No matter what else you say, my answer is still no. Absolutely not.”
Brody’s gray eyes are bright with excitement, while Nate’s are dark slits aimed right at his brother.
“What am I missing?” I ask, but then catch up. Stunt double.
Twins.
Identical twins.
“We are far too old for the twin-switch game,” Nate says, ignoring my question but still answering it. “Besides, I have zero desire to be you.”
“You don’t want to go to Fiji?” Brody scoffs. “Hard to believe.”
“I don’t want to pretend to be you and do your silly little activities or whatever. Not to mention, I don’t want to be on your show. That’s always been more your thing.”