Setting the pile on my unused visitor chair, he grabs the one on top, snaps it open—which makes things a million times worse as a chilly breeze flutters over my face—then he lays the fabric over me, grabs a second, and repeats. Then a third. With each additional layer, heavier than the one before, my cocoon grows warmer, and the weight provides reprieve from my whole-body tremors.
“You need to sleep.” He tucks me in, tightly scooping the blanket under my side and pinning me to the mattress. But it’s not a restriction that makes my pulse sprint faster. It’s not something that makes the ache in my belly worse. “Sleep is important, especially so soon after your ordeal. The longer you force yourself to stay awake, the worse your brain injury may become.” He goes back to rubbing my shoulder. “Rest is how we heal, ma’am.”
“I’m not t-trying to make things worse. And you’re right… ma’am s-sounds weird.”
“Well, when you’ve slept and your brain hurts a little less, we’ll get back to guessing. If we’re lucky, maybe the cops will fingerprint you and find a yards-long rap sheet with your name all over it. Robbed any banks lately?”
“M-maybe.”Goddddd. I squeeze my eyes shut and groan as pain radiates from my toes to my hair. I feel the ache in every pore. In my thighs. My hips. My back. I feel it in my fingers. My shoulders. Even my ears. “N-not to brag or anything, butifI robbed a bank, I probably wouldn’t have gotten caught.”
He laughs, rubbing his hands together so the sound of friction and warmth draws my eyes open. I wish it were mine to grab on to. To curlinto. To experience the toastiness for the first time in… I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t cold.
Literally.
“You’re funny.” He digs his hand beneath my blankets, surprising my monitor into a frenzied staccato, but then he sandwiches my hands between his and does exactly what I wanted. He lends me his warmth. “I look forward to meeting therealyou. When things are better, and you remember who you are, and you’renotwearing my sewing skills on your ribs. When you’re living—not just surviving—and you have time and emotional capacity to feel at ease, instead of staring at the door like you think a monster is gonna come barreling through.”
Busted, I peel my eyes away from the door and stop on his kind stare.
“There’s someone out there searching for you,” he murmurs. “Someone good and decent and completely beside themselves with worry. They know your name. And your favorite color. Your favorite food. They know your job. And your secrets. And your birthday. And your first pet.” He drags his thumb along my wrist, almost painful in how deeply he presses the digit in. But he knows how to make it feel nice. How to make it feel like a massage. “You’ll know who you are soon, and as you heal, your memories will come back. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe you could call the hospital sometime while I’m on shift and let me know if you’re a bank robber on the run. Or an international hit-woman, since women are allowed to have dangerous jobs, too.”
I snicker, watery and silly and ridiculouslywhimpery. But damn, Oliver Darling really has the older brother comfort thing down to an art.
“Cats or dogs?”
Frowning, I look up into his eyes, then down again. Then up. “What?”
He flashes a charming smile. “Figured we could play a game. I’ll give you options, and you have to say the first thing that comes into your head. Cats or dogs?”
“Like… which is my favorite?”
He shrugs. “Tacos or pizza?”
“Uh…”
“Island vacation or European tour?”
“Cats… I think. Tacos. Island. Maybe.”
Victorious, he rubs his hands over mine, creating friction with the same fervor as a man attempting to start a fire with flint. “Could be true. Could be completely wrong. But it’s fun, and it won’t hurt anything. Books or movies?”
Reading hurts my eyes. Even attempting to read the poster on the side of my bedside table, with words large enough to compete with the size of my palm, is like poking my brain with a sharp stick. So I exhale a long sighand answer with the opposite, even if the before-a-car-hit-me version of me would disagree. “Movies. But the screen is tiny in here, so it’s hard to see.”
“Budget cuts,” he counters playfully. “We don’t even have a proper cafeteria in this joint. We have a coffee cart that was parked outside a decade or two ago. The engine blew, and the tires dried out. The rust on the rims made it impossible to get them off, so instead of moving the cart, the board threw a thousand bucks at a local contractor and told him to build walls around it. Now it’s like a drive-thru coffee window, except we’re the ones driving through.”
“Lucky you.” I peek across the room at the sound of approaching footsteps, my heart rate monitor quickening to a frantic tempo. But no one stops in the doorway, and when I meet Oliver’s kind gaze, my cheeks firing with an embarrassed blush, he merely maintains his pleasant smile. “Drive-thru coffee is better than a bitchin’ headache and a paper cup that makes the water taste like… paper. My stomach hurts because I’m hungry, but the thought of eating makes me want to puke.”
He rubs my fingers, dragging the pad of his thumb along my digits and massaging all the way to the tips. “I could get you some juice. Maybe a sandwich. Francine will wander by with the lunch cart in an hour. If you’re especially kind to her, she’ll give you extras. She’s currently favoring the boy a few rooms down, since he’s a total flirt and knows how to play the game. But she had her hair permed recently, and she’s feeling a little self-conscious about it. If you say something nice, she’ll be putty in your hands.”
“Seems you know how to play the game, too.” My body slowly begins to thaw under the blankets, the tight grip my muscles cling to, relaxing. “Most guys wouldn’t notice she had her hair done, let alone that she was feeling weird about it.”
“Sisters,” he quips easily. “They like makeup and hair stuff, and theydon’tlike it when I ask, ‘Are you wearingthattoday?’ My mom was a staunch feminist who made sure I understood my obligation, as a man, not to be a useless pimple on society’s ass.”
“Your mom sounds like a smart woman. And your dad?”
His eyes dance playfully. “My dad was smart enough to knowyes dearwas the only correct response in a house where the women outnumbered the men. My school experience was relatively un-messy because of the things I learned at home.”
Phones trill in the hall, and nurses move constantly. They deal with patients. File paperwork. Shout orders. Sip coffee.
Was I a nurse?
