Faker Page 12

  “You’ll survive.” He gifts me a half smile. “And when you come out of surgery, maybe I’ll tell you a bit about my life here in the Great Plains, pretty much the opposite of the beach.” His eyes fall to his shoes. “As a kid you must have hated it at first, leaving a tropical paradise for boring flatlands.”

  “I did hate it, but not because of the scenery. When we moved, I was in junior high and had to transfer schools in the middle of the school year. Kids were mean. I was one of a handful of minority students in the entire school. In the entire town, actually. They called me names.”

  “What kind of names? Like racial slurs?” He sounds concerned. It’s sweet.

  “No, not that. Things like Pocahontas because some kids thought I looked Native American. Then when they realized I was from Hawaii, they called me Lilo, like from Lilo and Stitch.”

  “Fucking jerkoffs.” He pushes a chunk of hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ear.

  “I know. Not even the right race.” I twist my fist into the bedsheet as more memories surface.

  Once I can trust my voice to sound normal, I speak. “You’d burn the second you step off the plane if you ever go to Hawaii.”

  He makes an amused scoffing noise. “You’re probably right. I’m a haole after all. It sounds incredible, though. I’d like to go some day.”

  “You know the word ‘haole’? I’m impressed.” I let myself laugh.

  “One of my college roommates was Hawaiian. It was his favorite nickname for me when he spotted me doing ‘white boy things,’ as he put it.”

  “What are ‘white boy things’?”

  “Watching or playing lacrosse. Eating Jell-O. Drinking Red Bull and vodka. Driving an Acura.”

  He chuckles, and I laugh even harder.

  My eyes settle back on him. “You are very fair, though. If you ever go, shellac yourself in sunscreen, put on a hat and sunglasses, and you’ll be fine.”

  “You sound like my sister. Sunscreen is serious business for her, and she never lets me hear the end of it when I forget to put it on.”

  “Smart woman. Protecting fair skin from the sun is no joke.”

  That tidbit of personal info is like catnip. I want to hear more from him, to learn as much as I can.

  He speaks before I can even open my mouth. “What brought you all the way here? I’ve always wondered.”

  I shake my head. “No. More about you first.”

  He gives me a handful of blinks before his face splits into a smile. “Why?”

  “Because I’m giving you a hell of a look into my life right now. Sick in the hospital, dispensing personal info like candy. I’ve got nothing from you, other than you have a sister and you used to live with a guy from Hawaii.”

  When he pauses, he takes the time to purse his lips. Then there’s a soft smile. “Ask me anything.”

  “Do you have any other siblings?”

  He shakes his head. “Just me and my twin sister.”

  I nearly choke. “You’re a twin?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No. Just processing the fact that you’re almost a clone. Christ, you’re a steel trap for information. What’s she like?”

  “Sweet. Kind. Outgoing. Easy to get along with. Pretty much the exact opposite of me.”

  “That’s not true. You can be sweet and kind, but only when someone is deathly ill and on their way to the hospital.”

  He grins, then purses his lips once more.

  “Tell me more about her,” I say.

  “Her name’s Natalie. She’s fiercely loyal and protective of me.”

  His face perks up slightly at the mention of her. I picture a lively, curly-haired blond little girl refusing to leave the side of kid Tate.

  “Then she would hate me for all the crap I give you at work,” I say.

  “She’d like you a lot. I have no doubt.” He shuffles his feet. “What else do you want to know?”

  “Relationship status?” I can’t help my curiosity. It’s something I’ve wondered the entire time I’ve known him, but I’ve never felt comfortable enough to ask.

  “Single.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Is it?” He squints at me.

  “A bit. You’re so damn handsome. I would think women flock to you like flies to honey.” Normally, I’d be too embarrassed to say such a thing, but my morphine courage helps.

  Pink creeps up his neck and his cheeks just as his mouth quirks into a smile. “I think the pain meds are messing with your head.”

  “Way to dodge the subject.”

  He shakes his head and runs a hand over his face. His lips resume their straight line the moment his hand falls to his lap. “I think you know why I’m unattached.” His eyes bore into mine.

  I shrug. “You’re too broody, too intense. Ladies dig it to a point, but I’d bet anything you intimidate them with your constant scowling and staring and jaw clenching. Remember before I fell off the ladder, when you walked up to me?”

  He nods.

  “Every single woman in our vicinity was gawking at you like you were something to eat. A couple guys, too, actually. You didn’t notice. Too busy death staring at me. If you just eased up on the steely facade, they would approach you.”

  I expect him to chuckle, to roll his eyes at my assessment. I think it’s pretty accurate, but I’d love to hear the real reason a hottie like Tate doesn’t seem to be interested in any woman around him. Yet he doesn’t speak, not right away. All he does is swallow and stare.

  “Maybe I don’t want them to,” he says.

  There’s a flutter in my stomach. It surges up my chest and to my throat, making it impossible to talk. He sets his hand over mine and gives it a soft squeeze.

  Just then a nurse pops in to up my morphine dose before wheeling me to the operating room. With each blink, I grow more and more groggy. The feel of Tate’s hand on mine is the last thing I remember before slipping into the darkness.

  twelve

  A woman dressed in scrubs with a cap over her hair is shoving thick socks onto my feet when I wake. I’m guessing she’s a nurse. She’s speaking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s hard with a cloudy head and ringing ears. After a minute, I finally understand a handful of the words she speaks. Laparoscopic. Post-op. Successful. You did great.

  Ten seconds after that, I begin to process full sentences.

  “You had a hot appendix, honey. It probably would have burst had you waited any longer to come to the hospital,” she says.

  Coming out of general anesthesia is surprisingly exhausting. I try to say “okay,” but I can’t open my mouth. I can barely tilt my head. I feel like I’ve been shaken awake from a coma. Every blink is a battle. I just want to wake the hell up and go home.

  I’m wheeled back to my hospital room. When I turn my head and see no one is there waiting, I stare at the ceiling and space out, on the verge of unconsciousness. Soft patting against the bed wakes me. It’s Dr. Tran. She explains that surgery went well and that since I’m recovering so well, I can go home tomorrow morning.

  I try to sit up, but sharp pain shoots through my right side. I fall back down to the bed.

  “Try not to strain your abdomen,” she says. “You need to heal.”

  “Okay.” I sound like a sleepy toddler.

  Alone in the room, I wonder where Tate is. I crawl back in my memory, going over the conversation we had before I was wheeled into surgery. I try to recall all the things we said to each other this morning and yesterday. I remember telling him about growing up in Hawaii and about being bullied in school. I remember Kaitlin marching in, brimming with worry. I remember gushing about how handsome he is. And then I remember telling him about my big “O” problem.

  Fuck. I press my eyelids shut, grimacing at the memory. I can barely recall it. But he can
. I bet he remembers it perfectly. Oh dear God.

  Every other candid admission I made to him over the past day and a half floods over me. He opened up, too, but nowhere near the scale that I did. Fiery warmth consumes me, even under these paper-thin bedsheets. Before today, I didn’t know my entire body could blush with humiliation.

  When he walks into my hospital room, I tense. A gentle smile spreads across his face. He’s done so many thoughtful things for me the past day and a half. The urge to thank him over and over hits, but I stop myself. I would just sound weirdly grateful, which would add to my growing list of pathetic qualities he’s now aware of.

  “You’re back,” he says, slightly out of breath.

  “Where have you been?”

  “With a friend. We just got back from moving your car to your place.”

  “Oh.” What an incredibly nice thing for him to do. “Wait, how did you know where to take my car? You don’t know where I live.”

  He plops on the chair. “Your driver’s license. Your address is printed on it.”

  “Right. Thank you for thinking to do that.”

  “No problem at all.” He heaves a breath. Bluish bags rest under his eyes. He hasn’t changed since he brought me to the hospital yesterday. I wonder if he’s eaten.

  “I, uh . . . I survived. Surgery, I mean,” I stammer. I’m so thrown off, I can’t think of anything else to say.

  “I guess I owe you some chitchat about me,” he says.

  Part of me wants him gone, so I can be alone to fight through the worst of this embarrassment. But the other part of me burns with curiosity. His comments about ignoring the interest of other women were the last words I heard before I went under anesthesia. I wonder what that means in relation to me.

  “Chat away,” I say, trying my best to keep my cool.

  He swallows, and his face turns serious. “Sitting next to you has been what gets me through every single workday. I’d rather have a bad day at work with you in the office across from me than a good day without you.”

  His words hit my ears like a banging cymbal. That same surge of hope I felt when we saw each other at work after our kiss surges through me. That same dread follows. For the past thirty-six hours, Tate has been unexpectedly caring and attentive. Now I realize why this new side of him is as unsettling as it is wonderful. It’s completely unlike him, and I hate not knowing how long it will last. He will eventually switch back to his abrasive self, just like he’s done every other time he has showed me any kindness. All of this will just be a blip of sweetness on his radar of hostility.

  “You could have fooled me,” I say.

  “I know I’ve been an asshole to you. I just . . . It’s hard to explain.”

  I shake my head. “I’m used to it. Middle school prepared me well.”

  Slowly, he stands up, walks to my side, and grabs my hand again, this time in a grip so tight I couldn’t let go if I wanted to. It still tingles. “Please don’t say that.”

  “It’s who you are, Tate. You made it clear to me on your first day of work that you don’t like me.”

  “But you don’t—”

  “It’s true, and you know it. I fake like it doesn’t hurt my feelings when it does. I pretend like I don’t want to be your best work buddy, but I do.”

  It’s cathartic to finally admit this to him. I wait for him to let go of my hand, but he holds on.

  “It’s all fine. I can pretend like I don’t care.” When I admit it out loud, I want to cry. But I can’t. Not here in front of him, not now when I’m desperately grasping for my bearings in this postsurgery haze.

  His fingers trace my cheek. My pain isn’t physical anymore. I need something more powerful than painkillers to ease it.

  He takes my hand in both of his. My eyes are slits at this point, but I catch a glimpse of his head lowering down to the bed. His velvety lips press against the back of my hand, giving me the softest, most gentle kiss in the world. Instantly, I melt.

  “Things could be different if we start being ourselves.” His gaze turns tender. He kisses my hand again.

  I shake my head. “Maybe, but too much has happened. We’ve been jerks to each other for too long.”

  “It doesn’t have to stay that way,” he says.

  “We don’t know how to be anything else to each other.”

  “That’s not true. Right here, right now, we’re not at all like we are at work. We’ve been so much better.”

  He’s right. In this hospital, we’ve been so good to each other. But in a few hours it will end, and all I’ll have is a morphine-induced memory of him touching my hair, holding my hand, kissing my cheek, cuddling me to sleep. I should be thankful I’ve gotten this much.

  I pinpoint him with drowsy eyes. “We’re in a vacuum. We can say and do whatever we want here in this hospital, but it’s not reality. How could we make this work in our normal lives?”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I know I’m right. Even though I ache for him to tell me that I’m wrong, that he can be this kind person forever no matter where we are, it’s not possible. He can’t be something he’s not.

  I close my eyes and let the silence bury me.

  Tate’s husky voice cuts through to me. “Let’s stay here, then.”

  “Ha.” I moan. “Impossible. My insurance won’t cover it.”

  “Then let’s go away and start over. Fix ourselves, make things right, and then come back. We can be just like this, how we are now. How does that sound?”

  I gaze up at him. I want it more than he knows. If we could figure out a way to be our kind selves in front of each other always, I would say yes in a heartbeat.

  Tears brim behind my eyelids. I keep them closed until I know they won’t fall.

  “More drugs, please,” I say.

  “I’m serious.” His tone is impatient.

  “I’m serious too.” My eyes are barely open.

  His sigh is heavy, but still he holds my hand. Somehow no tears fall. I inhale with relief.

  A getaway, a do-over with Tate so we can be friends or maybe even something more. If only it were that easy.

  Closing my eyes, I turn my face to him and manage a whisper. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”

  Tense silence fills the space between us. Despite my words, the anxiety bubble in my chest is about to burst. I can’t bear to sit in the same room with him anymore, staring at him until I’m discharged. I’ve said too much, he knows all my dirt, and I am officially exposed.

  I clear my throat. “You don’t have to stay here. I’m not getting discharged until tomorrow morning anyway.”

  He lets go of my hand and skims the railing. “It’s fine. I want to.”

  “I can call Kaitlin or someone else to take me home.”

  “That’s not necessary. I brought you here. I’ll drive you home.” He sounds surprised that I would suggest such an idea.

  “Don’t you want to go home and rest? Aren’t you hungry? I haven’t seen you eat since you’ve been at the hospital.”

  “I’m okay.” He shrugs. When he leans back against the wall, he lets out a tired sigh. Even in the trenches of exhaustion, he’s exquisitely handsome.

  “Go get something to eat. Please.” I try for a gentle tone. “And after that, feel free to go home and shower or whatever.”

  His face falls. “Okay, then.” He walks out of the room.

  I let out a breath, thankful to be alone again, but I’m itching to get the hell out of here. I need to be home, someplace familiar so I can sort myself out and feel like me again.

  I can’t do anything about that until tomorrow morning though. All I can do now is sleep.

  When I wake, it’s dark. A few hours of rest leaves me feeling slightly more refreshed. I prop myself on my elbows to stretch out, but the killer soreness in my lower torso reminds me I have to be car
eful with every single move I make. I wince, inhaling through my teeth when my ears home in on a soft wheezing to my left.

  Through the darkness, I see Tate hunched on his side while propped in the chair next to me, sound asleep. He came back to be with me, even though I told him not to.

  Somehow, I don’t panic. Probably because deep down, I’m grateful. As mortified as I am that Tate now has such an intimate knowledge of all my insecurities, my lizard brain feels flattered. He cares enough to watch over me after all this. His sleeping body won’t pity or judge me, or turn into a jerk when I least expect it. That silent presence is exactly the comfort I need. I wish I could have it all the time. After tomorrow though, it will disappear.

  I sink back into my covers and drift to sleep.

  * * *

  • • •

  THE NURSE COMES into my room for my midmorning check. I reiterate how stellar I feel and how I’m ready to go home. After an hour of waiting and consulting with Dr. Tran, it’s decided I can leave.

  She fetches my discharge papers and an info packet on how to take proper care of myself postsurgery. I text Tate, who’s been camped out in the cafeteria ever since he woke up, that I’m ready to go. It’s a relief that I didn’t have to ask him for time to myself when he woke up, that he just knew to give me space on his own.

  He replies in seconds:

  I’ll be up in a sec.

  I can’t take more coddling. Right away I reply:

  Not necessary. Just meet me out in front with the car, please.

  I change back into my sweaty worksite clothes, grimacing every time I have to lean or bend to contort myself into my clothing. I never knew just how much I used my torso for mundane movements.

  When I open the door, I jump at the sight of Tate. He’s regained a bit of the pinkish hue in his skin, probably due to eating something. In front of him is a wheelchair.

  “I said I could do this on my own.” There’s a strain in my voice I didn’t intend.

  He flinches. A pinch of guilt hits me.