Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,50

The recovery packet says to rest and ease back into walking long distances. I’m a terrible patient. Luckily, today is Labor Day and our workplace is closed, but I need more time to recover. I call both Will’s and Lynn’s office extensions to leave messages about my unexpected surgery and how I’ll need the rest of the week off and part of next week to recover. And to think more about Tate.

I’m still at a loss as to what to do, torn between apologizing profusely and thanking him, or ignoring him and going back to normal. I’d also like to hug him. Maybe share a mango with him. I’m clearly on the brink of insanity.

I’m making my way through the mangoes like a starving monkey. Six are left, and the stem of the “T” is gone. They’re all I’ve been eating. Every time I eat one, I think of Tate. With each peel, slice, and bite, my brain floods with memories of his gentle, caring demeanor. How he cradled my body when we fell asleep together, the way he stayed by my side even when I told him to leave. The sense of comfort I felt around him that I’ve never felt with any guy before. All of it leaves me breathless and wanting. Every time I think of his lips against my skin, there’s a tremor inside me.

I’m washing my hands of mango juice when I realize I can no longer deny it: I have feelings for Tate.

The realization tumbles around my head, giving way to other blush-inducing thoughts. I’d trade all the mangoes in the world to crawl under bedsheets with him again, this time sans clothing. I think I’ve felt this way since the moment I left his car the night we first kissed. I was just too stubborn and flustered to admit it.

Once my hands are dry, I grab my phone to text him. I start, stop, erase, and edit a half dozen messages. They’re all wordy variations of “I’m sorry” and “thank you.” I suppose I could have just written that, but it sounds robotic. Even if this weekend was a one-off in his behavior, I want to be sincere in my gratitude. I finally settle on:

Hey. Sorry it took me so long to get in touch with you . . . it’s been a rough couple days . . . thank you for the mangoes. And thank you for taking care of me.

Not terrible, but not great. I’m brushing my teeth when my phone buzzes with a response from him:

You’re welcome. I hope you feel better.

Relief hits me, followed by disappointment. It’s an appropriate reply. Something’s missing, though. I can’t tell if it’s because we’re communicating via text and the nuance of emotion is impossible to convey, or if it’s because he’s back to his rigid, stern self. It’s hard enough admitting this in the privacy of my mind, but I wanted a more personal response from him. I wanted him to say what a pleasure it was to hold my body, how honored he was to play nurse to me for the weekend, that he was sleepless until he heard from me.

I rinse and spit in the sink, annoyed with my irrational desire. I thanked him, and he acknowledged me. I lay in bed tossing and turning, confused as to why I expected anything more.

The glow of my phone screen cuts through the darkness of my bedroom, interrupting my thoughts. I turned it to silent but forgot to set it facedown on my nightstand like I normally do. When I check it, I have to bite my lip to keep from splitting my face in half with a grin. At 11:47 p.m., Tate’s text to me has sent all my doubts flying out the window.

Tate: No reply? Aww, Emmie. I was hoping I’d get a smiley face, or a “good night.” You’re killing me :P

God in heaven, that colon with a “P” is my new favorite emoji.

Me: Sorry. Recovery and all that has my brain in an odd mode.

Me: :D:D:D

Me: Is that any better?

Tate: It will suffice. I can rest easy knowing you have the energy to be a smart-ass to me via text ;)

Holy shit, a winking face. My heart thunders through my chest. Before I can reply with another silly emoji, he replies.

Tate: Is it okay if I check on you every day? I know you don’t want to be smothered, but I’d like to be there for you. If you