not helpful right now.
‘If we could start by asking Remy if he knows what day it is today?’
‘What? Oh, it’s—’ My mind preoccupied, it seems my mouth seeks automatically to answer him.
‘We may know what day it is,’ the doctor replies tolerantly, ‘but we need to know if Remy knows.’
‘Oh. Right. Of course.’
My mind begins to race as I draw closer to the side of the bed. His black leather wallet has been placed on the hospital nightstand, a tired-looking masculine watch lying open across it. I begin to wonder how he’ll pay his hospital bill, given the lack of bank cards. A translating service would only add to the cost, and I don’t want the bill delivered to my mailbox, no matter how pretty he is. The ridiculous thoughts rotate through my head in an attempt to drown out my internal freak-out. Why have I put myself in this position? And now it’s too late to say there’s been some mistake.
Well, here goes nothing.
‘Quelle . . . quelle . . .’ Quelle is the French word for “day”, again? My palms begin to feel sticky, and my heart races. I can’t remember being so nervous since a spelling bee in sixth grade. I feel like I’m on stage again. But then in a blinding flash, the phrase comes to me—another blast from my middle school past.
‘Quelle jour il est!’
‘Quel jour est il?’ the patient repeats in a deep baritone. And with a smirk.
Okay, pretty boy. So your French is better than mine—big whoop.
‘Oui,’ I reply with the hauteur of a Parisienne grande dame, earning me the kind of smile that makes me feel unnecessarily giddy.
‘Dimanche.’ The patient’s eyes flick briefly to the clock on the wall. ‘Non. C’est maintenant Lundi.’
I have no clue what he just said, but if he says it again, I’m climbing in the bed with him, hospital or not. Why does everything said in a French accent sound so sexy?
‘What was his answer?’
I find myself frowning as I glance the doctor’s way. How could I forget he was there?
‘He said yes. I mean, he got it right.’ Hopefully. I think? I turn to face Remy again as I contemplate how I’m barely sure what day it is myself. How is a man with a concussion expected to know in either language? ‘Did the nurse ask him how this happened?’ I enquire carefully, though he’s hardly likely to confess to being felled by a rubber dong. Not that I think I’m wholly responsible for the things that happened to him tonight.
‘He fell from a bike, as I understand.’
That makes sense, I suppose, but—
‘From a bike? Like a bicycle? Or a motorcycle?’
‘I thought he didn’t speak any English?’ The doctor points at Remy, his expression bland.
‘Actually, I was asking you. Last night there wasn’t any kind of bike or any evidence of there being a bike—wreckage or helmet—where I found him.’ Or where he found me, I suppose. As I speak, Remy’s green eyes glitter dangerously, almost as though in recognition. Maybe the word for bike is the same in English, and he’s pissed at it.
‘A motorcycle,’ the doc answers. ‘He came off at a very low speed, which would account for the lack of other injuries. He has a concussion and a small wound on his head as a result of hitting it on a metal rail, once he’d taken off his helmet, following a dizzy spell.’
‘Is the concussion from the railing?’ I ask haltingly.
‘More likely from falling from the motorcycle.’
‘Could it have been from something else?’
‘Like what?’ His gaze narrows.
‘I was just thinking,’ I reply, all wide-eyed and forced innocence. Thinking about the damage I could’ve done with the dildo and how his head might’ve met with the railing outside of my house.
Felony by dildo. Would that be a thing?
I glance at the doctor again, my brow furrowed. I’d watched a TV program recently about football players and the risks they face from concussions and traumatic brain injuries. It was pretty scary. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ My frown deepens at his terse tone. ‘How do you not know what kind of bike he owns?’
‘It must be a new hobby,’ I mumble, wondering if I’m imagining how the patient’s expression seems to become purposely blank every time the doctor looks his way. Meanwhile, he looks at me as though he’s struggling to contain his amusement.
Probably because I wear every one of my feelings on my face.
‘If you could