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