Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,39
possible. Slow, deep breaths tide me over until I slide out and climb back into the hospital bed. I’m wheeled back to my room.
“How was it?” Tate asks, seated in the chair at my side.
“Glorious.” I run my palms lightly over my stomach.
“I wonder what weird things they found in my stomach.” The morphine leaves me floating in a cloudy haze. “Maybe a pack of tiny elves is hunkered down in my gut, stabbing me with samurai swords. That’s what it feels like.”
He chuckles. “Those ninja elves need to come up with better things to do with their time than bother you. Like fighting crime.”
“Or making cookies in a tree.”
“Or repairing shoes.”
I laugh, then I narrow my eyes at him. He stares back, studying my face as hard as I’m studying his.
“You’re impressively pale,” I say.
“So I’ve heard.”
“I love it.”
“You do?” His cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. He sounds genuinely surprised.
“You remind me of the Scandinavians who travel to the Big Island for the Ironman race. When I was a kid, I’d see them jogging and swimming all over the island to practice for it. They were milky white and ripped to hell, just like you.”
The truth-serum effect of painkillers is impressive. I’m telling him things I would normally never dream of saying out loud.
He lets out a half chuckle. “How do you know I’m ripped to hell?” His elbow rests on his knee, his chin propped on his fist.
“You wore a tank top when I saw you at the rock climbing gym. Your arms are . . . delightful.” I catch him with an amused smile. It’s heaven knowing I caused it. “And the shirt you’re wearing now leaves little to the imagination.”
Now that he’s hunched over a bit, he’s within touching distance. I reach over and grab his biceps in my hand. Even under fabric, it’s hard as steel. The firmness makes my insides ache in a good way. Normally, I would never be so bold as to feel up a man’s arm. I blame the morphine.
“This spandex or Lycra or whatever it is, the way it hugs your body, I can see all the muscles.”
He shifts in his chair. His cheeks are full-on red now. I think I’m overdoing it in the compliments department, but I can’t help it. The painkillers are holding the filter between my brain and my mouth hostage. I am no longer myself. I am Morphine Emmie who is making my coworker feel self-conscious by showering him with compliments about his body.
“The other day at the worksite, you lifted your shirt up a couple times to wipe your face. I got an excellent view of your stomach. Very muscly. Muah.” I kiss my fingertips like I’m complementing a delicious Italian meal.
“Jesus Christ.” He laughs. “That’s enough out of you.” The chuckling fades, but his smile remains. “You should sleep now.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my name is?” I’m in a cloudy haze, but it’s different from the confusion I felt during my concussion. It’s a light, airy feeling that reminds me of laughing gas at the dentist.
He shakes his head. “I overhead Dr. Tran telling the nurse she’s pretty positive you’re fully recovered from your minor concussion.”
His words are the green light my body seems to need to fully relax. At least my first health crisis resolved itself before the next one arrived. Soon that cloudy haze turns into half sleep. I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I open my eyes, self-awareness makes an appearance. My face heats when I remember how I grabbed Tate’s arm. Whatever momentary gall it was that came over me then has gone into hiding now.
I don’t know why I feel so self-conscious all of a sudden. We shared a bed last night and this morning after all. But that was tender and sweet. My drugged-up comments to him were downright outrageous.
Dr. Tran glides back into my room. “I just wanted to pop in and let you know that we believe you’re suffering from appendicitis.”
My mouth falls open so fast, my jaw pops. That’s a hell of a way to announce a serious medical issue. Straight to the point, not even a hello to soften the blow.
She seems to sense the fear coursing through me and quickly explains in laymen’s terms the results of my CT scan, specifically how my appendix is inflamed. A simple surgery scheduled for this afternoon is the chosen course of action.
Appendicitis. Inflamed. Surgery. Her words incite