A woman dressed in scrubs with a cap over her hair is shoving thick socks onto my feet when I wake. I’m guessing she’s a nurse. She’s speaking, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s hard with a cloudy head and ringing ears. After a minute, I finally understand a handful of the words she speaks. Laparoscopic. Post-op. Successful. You did great.
Ten seconds after that, I begin to process full sentences.
“You had a hot appendix, honey. It probably would have burst had you waited any longer to come to the hospital,” she says.
Coming out of general anesthesia is surprisingly exhausting. I try to say “okay,” but I can’t open my mouth. I can barely tilt my head. I feel like I’ve been shaken awake from a coma. Every blink is a battle. I just want to wake the hell up and go home.
I’m wheeled back to my 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 me.”
“But you don’t—”
“It’s true, and you know it. I fake like it doesn’t hurt my feelings when it does. I pretend like I don’t want to be your best work buddy, but I do.”
It’s cathartic to finally admit this to him. I wait for him to let go of my hand, but he holds on.
“It’s all fine. I can pretend like I don’t care.” When I admit it out loud, I want to cry. But I can’t. Not here in front of him, not now when I’m desperately grasping for my bearings in this postsurgery haze.
His fingers trace my cheek. My pain isn’t physical anymore. I need something more powerful than painkillers to ease it.
He takes my hand in both of his. My eyes are slits at this point, but I catch a glimpse of his head lowering down to the bed. His velvety lips press against the back of my hand, giving me the softest, most gentle kiss in the world. Instantly, I melt.
“Things could be different if we start being ourselves.” His gaze turns tender. He kisses my hand again.
I shake my head. “Maybe, but too much has happened. We’ve been jerks to each other for too long.”
“It doesn’t have to stay that way,” he says.
“We don’t know how to be anything else to each other.”
“That’s not true. Right here, right now, we’re not at all like we are at work. We’ve been so much better.”
He’s right. In this hospital, we’ve been so good to each other. But in a few hours it will end, and all I’ll have is a morphine-induced memory of him touching my hair, holding my hand, kissing my cheek, cuddling me to sleep. I should be thankful I’ve gotten this much.
I pinpoint him with drowsy eyes. “We’re in a vacuum. We can say and do whatever we want here in this hospital, but it’s not reality. How could we make this work in our normal lives?”
When he doesn’t say anything, I know I’m right. Even though I ache for him to tell me that I’m wrong, that he can be this kind person forever no matter where we are, it’s not possible. He can’t be something he’s not.
I close my eyes and let the silence bury me.
Tate’s husky voice cuts through to me. “Let’s stay here, then.”
“Ha.” I moan. “Impossible. My insurance won’t cover it.”
“Then let’s go away and start over. Fix ourselves, make things right, and then come back. We can be just like this, how we are now. How does that sound?”
I gaze up at him. I want it more than he knows. If we could figure out a way to be our kind selves in front of each other always, I would say yes in a heartbeat.
Tears brim behind my eyelids. I keep them closed until I know they won’t fall.
“More drugs, please,” I say.
“I’m serious.” His tone is impatient.
“I’m serious too.” My eyes are barely open.
His sigh is heavy, but still he holds my hand. Somehow no tears fall. I inhale with relief.
A getaway, a do-over with Tate so we can be friends or maybe even something more. If only it were that easy.
Closing my eyes, I turn my face to him and manage a whisper. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”
Tense silence fills the space between us. Despite my words, the anxiety bubble in my chest is about to burst. I can’t bear to sit in the same room with him anymore, staring at him until I’m discharged. I’ve said too much, he knows all my dirt, and I am officially exposed.
I clear my throat. “You don’t have to stay here. I’m not getting discharged until tomorrow morning anyway.”
He lets go of my hand and skims the railing. “It’s fine. I want to.”
“I can call Kaitlin or someone else to take me home.”
“That’s not necessary. I brought you here. I’ll drive you home.” He sounds surprised that I would suggest such an idea.
“Don’t you want to go home and rest? Aren’t you hungry? I haven’t seen you eat since you’ve been at the hospital.”
“I’m okay.” He shrugs. When he leans back against the wall, he lets out a tired sigh. Even in the trenches of exhaustion, he’s exquisitely handsome.
“Go get something to eat. Please.” I try for a gentle tone. “And after that, feel free to go home and shower or whatever.”
His face falls. “Okay, then.” He walks out of the room.
I let out a breath, thankful to be alone again, but I’m itching to get the hell out 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 tie the room together.”
He chuckles. I turn around and see his face just as it transitions back to blank.
“Well, thanks again. For everything,” I say impatiently. A film of dried sweat pulls on my skin when I move. I ache to scrub it away under a stream of scalding hot water.
He doesn’t budge. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it from here.” I can’t remember ever having such a difficult time getting someone to leave my place.
I step around him to the front door and open it. He turns around to face me and shuffles. I notice he does the same thing with his feet when he’s sitting.
“You’re absolutely sure? I can stay and help out. It’s no problem.”
“Do you honestly think I need you to help me take a shower?”
He shakes his head, flustered. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you were going to take a shower.”
“What do you think ‘clean up’ means?” I rub my forehead, sounding more curt than I mean to.
He sticks a hand in his hair, pulls hard, then yanks it out. “Right, yeah, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m just crazy sore and tired. Thank you for your help these past few days, but I’ll be okay on my own. I just need to rest.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then cross them again.
“I get it. I’ll take off.” He exhales and walks quickly out the door. I lock it before he even makes it off my porch.
A wave of exhaustion hits, as do the words printed on the info packet. No showering allowed for forty-eight hours. I stumble to the bathroom and give my body a half-hearted wipe down with a wet hand towel, then collapse on my couch.
I think about how Tate left, embarrassed and very clearly wanting to stay longer. I grimace at how short I was with him, how I practically pushed him out my front door. I should have been nicer. What would have happened if I had shoved aside my embarrassment and insecurity, and let him stay? It’s my last thought before I drift off.
Sleep is delirious and deep. A faint thud jerks me into a confused and groggy stupor, but I can’t be bothered to open my eyes. Probably the mailman dropping off a package. When I finally wake, it’s early evening, meaning I slept for a few hours.
Gripping the coffee table to pull myself up, I yelp in pain. Surgery has rendered my core ineffective. Evidently, my torso is made of Jell-O and Silly Putty. When I’m finally standing, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I trot back into the living room, but then I remember the mail. I open the front door and see a small crate of mangoes sitting on the porch. Holy shit.
There’s a note card on top of the dozen or so greenish-orange fruits. There’s no name signed on it, but I know they’re from Tate. It’s his distinct all-caps handwriting. I crouch down slowly to pick it up:
These aren’t from the Big Island, but they’ll have to do.
I’m not risking destroying my abdomen muscles to pick up the crate, so I cradle a few in my arms and bring them to the kitchen. It takes three trips, but I manage. By the time I’m finished, mangoes litter the counter. I stare at them in disbelief, then arrange them into a “T” shape. It seems appropriate given who they’re from.
Pressing each with my fingertips, I find the ripest one. I peel and slice it, then devour the sweet, juicy chunks. I’m wide eyed, dumbfounded, and ravenous. I’m chomping on the final piece when I realize I’m smiling.
The next morning, I’m buzzing with a fructose high. The gift of mangoes was a shock. Maybe Tate’s kindness wasn’t short lived. Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe the care and attentiveness he showed me when I was sick is who he truly is. Or maybe the mangoes were a final thoughtful gesture before returning back to our status quo of arguments and loaded silence.
I spend the better part of the day wondering about it. Nothing I do eases my anxiety. I lie on the couch, YouTube my favorite Eat Bulaga! episodes, browse Etsy for antique jewelry I can’t afford, then take a slow walk around the neighborhood for a couple of blocks. Tate hovers at the back of my mind the entire time.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m lying on the couch again. 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 want me. I’ve been thinking about you.
Tate: Maybe I can come over too?
My heart has ceased thundering. Currently, it’s at the base of my throat along with my stomach, my lungs, my liver, and probably both of my kidneys. My entire body is in a giant knot at his sweetness on full, unquestionable display. I worried for nothing. He cares. I’ve been on his mind, and he wants to be close to me, just like I want to be close to him.
Yes, please.