Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,48
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 careful 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.
“You need help whether you admit it or not,” he says.
He wheels me to the elevator, then to the entrance, where I wait while he fetches his car. He tries to take my folder of papers and purse from me, but I clutch them to my chest.
“I’ve got it.”
The drive to my duplex is mostly silent. He peppers me with questions about the temperature of the car and if I want the windows down. When he parks in my driveway, I try to wave him off, but he insists on helping me out and seeing me inside. His kindness is so damn sweet, but all I want is to be alone in my groggy, sore state.
“I don’t want you to fall or trip,” he says as I unlock the front door. He follows me in before I can shut it.
“I’m fine. Really. I just need to get cleaned up, and then I’ll go to sleep,” I say.
Stuffy hot air hits me in the face. I switch on the AC.
“You like it warm, then?” Tate trails behind me.
“We never had AC in Hawaii. When we moved to the mainland, my parents always turned it off when we weren’t home to save money. Old habits die hard.”
He nods before peering around. If I weren’t mortified by my super-personal confessions to him over the past couple days, I’d have the decency to feel ashamed of the state of my home. The decor of my duplex is college-grad minimalist. Hand-me-downs make up the bulk of my furniture. Tea mugs and books are strewn everywhere. My laundry basket sits in the middle of my living room, overflowing with clean clothes I neglected to fold days ago.
“Nice place,” he says.
“Thanks.” I drop my purse and papers on the couch. “The thrift-store coffee table and bookshelf really