between his shoulder and chest. How he could sense the silent panic within me, I don’t know. I’m grateful he could though, because being cuddled into him is pure divinity. I could nuzzle forever in this perfect crook.
My eyes fly open when I remember that he said not to fall asleep. Instead, I huff a deep breath. The spicy forest aroma of his deodorant is a needed distraction. I’ll have to ask him later what brand it is. I inhale deeply, keeping my eyes shut. Not a hint of sweat in his scent. Even in the heat and humidity of this morning, he managed to stay BO-free. He is a machine.
When I glance at the form, I notice he wrote the wrong date. I point to it. “No. That was yesterday’s date.”
Pure relief washes over his face when he gazes at me. “You can read this?”
I nod, then smile when I realize what a good sign that is. My gaze floats to an elderly woman across from us, smiling kindly. We must look adorable huddled together.
Soon a nurse fetches me. Tate props me up once again, and we follow her through glass doors to an empty exam room. As I’m settled into the bed, Tate stands in the corner, staring at me in silence. The creases in his forehead remain. I want to tell him to stop frowning because it will cause premature wrinkles, but I don’t have the energy.
The nurse takes my vitals, gives me a gown to change into, sticks an IV into me, then tells me I have to give a urine sample before the doctor can see me.
“I don’t know if I can even pee,” I mumble. I couldn’t stomach anything other than a glass of water this morning, the pain in my side was so bad, and I sweat it all out during the first five minutes on the worksite.
“Well, you have to try. If you can’t pee, I’ll have to take it from you with a catheter, and trust me, you don’t want that,” she says flippantly while gazing at her watch and checking the pulse in my wrist.
She hands me a plastic cup and walks out of the room. Tate glowers at her; I assume because of her impersonal bedside manner. I lean up from the bed.
“Don’t stand up by yourself.” He rushes over and slides my legs over the edge. “Do you need help?”
With what little strength I have, I roll my eyes. “No way in hell you’re helping me pee. Or change.”
He sighs and leads me to the toilet despite my false claims that I can walk on my own. I take a moment to steady myself against the closed door. After undressing, I toss the flimsy gown on and tie it in the back. A measly amount of dark yellow urine is all I’m able to squeeze into the cup, which I leave on the ledge of the sink before washing up. Tate practically carries me back to the bed.
The nurse returns, this time with a forty-something man wearing a white coat and stethoscope around his neck. The doctor, I assume. He introduces himself before asking what happened, and I explain my fall. He inquires about any pain or injuries. I mention the allover soreness and the ache in my right side.
The doctor presses and prods me, asking me to move various limbs and describe the pain.
“Nothing seems broken, which is good. There’ll be bruises and scrapes, but the soreness will fade after a few days. Can you tell me what your name is?”
“Emmaline Echavarre. I go by Emmie, though.”
“Good. Emmie, can you tell me what day it is?”
“Friday.”
“Very good. And where are you right now?”
“The hospital emergency room.”
From the corner, Tate huffs a sigh. He seems relieved.
The doctor flashes a penlight in my eyes, then presses around the injured side of my head. “I don’t see any bruising on your head, which is good. Did you throw up?”
“I dry heaved once and spit saliva, but I didn’t throw up. I haven’t eaten anything today, though.”
Tate explains how I was able to read the registration form in the waiting room. The doctor nods and scribbles some notes in his clipboard. “It sounds like you’ve had a minor concussion. It’s an excellent sign that you seemed to have regained cognitive ability after about fifteen minutes of feeling out of sorts. I think you’ll be just fine, but we’d like to keep you overnight at the hospital for observation, just to be