“Inappropriate,” I grit out. “She’s a patient in genuine need of help. She’s suffering a real, actual medical condition, and, as far as she knows, has absolutely no one on this planet who has her back. But instead of understanding how truly serious it is, you’re trying to turn it into a game. That’s not okay.”
“That’s not true, no matter how growly you are when you say it.” She steps out from between me and the desk, lifting her chin and smiling for the camera guys who emerge from Jane’s room. “Ready?”
The one in front nods. “Yes, ma’am. We’re good to roll.”
Bringing her focus back to me, Eliza reaches up and claps my cheek. “I brought her clothes to wear, books to read, a friend to call if she needs it, and a hairbrush, because girlsalwaysneed one of those, and my dumb big brother never stopped to consider such details. I didn’t bring games. If you’re looking at all this and you see something else, then it might be time to search within yourself and figure out why it seems that way. Now go.” She shoves my shoulder and pushes me forward. “I told her you’dbe the one to call her out. She’s shaky as hell and terrified of doing this interview. The least I can do is deliver the person who makes her feel safer.”
I never realized how often I use a person’s name before, how often I rely on that tag of intimacy in general conversation, but I inch closer to the bathroom now, with a half dozen sets of eyes on my back, and bringing my hand up, I tap-tap-tap the door, and though I want to speak her name, the only one I have is the one she doesn’t want to hear.
So I don’t dare mutter it.
“Hey, it’s Ollie. Are you, uh…” I swallow and peek back, frustrated by Eliza’s easy two-thumbs-up. Bringing my focus around again, I lean closer to the door. “Are you ready to come out now? It’s just me. The camera crew’s in the hall until we ask them back in.”
“I-I’m ready.” Jane’s voice echoes from one tile wall to another, and because of the bounce, I hear the rasp in her words. Her crackling fear. Her anxious uncertainty. “You can open the door.”
Nervous, I twist the handle and drag the door wide, revealing a room of bright white tiles and a floor-length mirror. I step across the threshold and slowly bring my gaze up, stopping on a womannotlike the one I met in my ER a little over a week ago, with blood smeared all over her body, bruises from top to toe, and fuck-knows-what clumped in her hair. She’s not the soft, doe-like patient who spent the last week in a hospital gown, either, the one with messy hair and pale cheeks, fearful eyes and shaking hands.
Thiswoman stands in jeans that hug her curves perfectly, and a loose shirt with a tiny section of the front tucked into the waistband of her pants. Ozzy Osbourne’s face covers her chest and belly, his painted fingernails stabbed forward as though to screamrock on. But with nervous hands, she tugs on a sweater of pale pink.
It’s like covering night with day. Black with white. With her hair down, brushed but still wet, tight jeans, and ankle boots boosting her up an entire extra inch, she looks like a heavy metal fan heading to a concert without the sweater. But a sweet, unassuming kindergarten teacher going to work with it on.
“Jesus. You look like a million bucks.” My lips curl higher, digging into my cheeks unbidden. I press my hand to my chest and meet her eyes. “Are we doing our patients a disservice by dressing them up in those ugly gowns every damn day? Washing them out and making them look paler than they really are?”
Blushing, she drags her hand over the front of her sweater and drops her gaze to the floor.
“If we got patients up and dressed as soon as they’re physically able, I wonder if recovery rates would increase? Like a placebo thing. If youlooksick, youfeelsick. But if you look like…” I gesture toward her, up and down. “You look brand new.”
“Feels nice to be wearing real clothes.” She wipes her hands on her thighs and nervously wanders forward. “I’m totally changing back into sweatpants after the interview, though.”
I bark out a laugh that knocks something loose in my chest. I’m like a pinball machine, and fuck, the ball is in there, spinning and springing out of control, tossing good sense aside and leaving me in a dizzied state that’s gonna get us both in trouble if I’m not careful.
“I don’t know if the old me… The me from before, that is. I don’t know if she wore jeans a lot or if she even liked them. Butthisversion of me thinks jeans wield magical powers. They tuck everything in, lift everything up, squeeze everything in all the right ways.” Shy, she shrugs. “But in exchange for that magic, we can’t breathe, and we’re hardly able to bend. It’s a steep price to pay.”
“It’s the way of the world.” I glance down at my jeans—not tight—and click my tongue. “Mine do the squeezing and plumping, too. That’s why I wear this coat all the time. Without it, women simply couldn’t cope. They lose their minds with unfettered lust.”
She snorts, her cheeks warming a delicious, bright pink. “Your selflessness knows no bounds, Doctor Douchebag. You trade vanity for the safety and livelihood of all those who work with you.”
Doctor Douchebag. I exhale a breathy sigh, powerful enough to push her long, beautiful locks back. “It’ssogood to know you’ve met my baby sister.”Not.“You’re not allowed to call me Doctor Douchebag, by the way.” I push the door wide and hold it open, gesturing for her to go first. “You veto Jane, I veto Douchebag.”
Snickering, she strolls across to her bed, her head down and her eyes on the floor. But fuck, her jeans do that magical plumping thing and frame her body in ways I absolutely shouldnotnotice. The fact I have means I should remove myself from her case and stay far,faraway.
But the camera guys stroll in without invitation and stop me from doing the right thing.
As if I was going to.
“We’ll get this done nice and quick,” the first guy murmurs, barreling toward Jane with a little black box in his hands. “I’ll tuck this into the back of your jeans, Miss, and this end—” He shows her the tiny microphone on the end of a wire. “Intoyour sweater.”
Jane’s eyes flash wide with panic. With terror. Her lungs spasm, and her chest rocks with a newfoundinability to breathe.
Fuck.
“I’ll take care of it.” I move quickly and step between them, snatching the little device and shoving him back. Then I turn and search her eyes, towering over her and making myself the only person she can see. The onlyanythingshe can see, despite the extra sets of footsteps entering her room at my back. “I’m not gonna leave you, okay?” I speak barely above a murmur, and hand her the small microphone so she can do it herself. “Slide that beneath your sweater, and we’ll clip it at the top. Then I’ll sit this behind you and we’ll be good to go.” I smile, as bright and encouraging as I can muster. “You ready to let your loved ones know where you are?”
“No. I d-don’t know that I am.” Her voice breaks on every second word, her hands shaking as she feeds the wire up under her sweater. “This hospital room kinda sucks, but it’s safe and normal andwayless panic-inducing than the idea of speaking into a camera for the whole world see.”
“Not the whole world,” the cameraman quips, tapping at a laptop open on the bedside table. “We’ll get you out all over the state, and the next couple over. But that’s as far as our reach goes for now.”
“Not the whole world,” I croon, peeking down into her terrified eyes. Her heartache draws me in. When she hurts, I hurt. And when she’s scared, my only instinct, no matter how many professional rules it breaks, is to protect her.
