“Giovanni,” I nudge softly, then shake his arm. “Giovanni, I’m up.”
He slowly blinks a few times, his eyes adjusting to the daylight now spilling in from the window. Glancing at me casually, he yawns and gives me a soft smile before lazily turning his head to the side, like he’s not aware of his surroundings.
About one second later, he whips his head back in my direction, eyes wide with panic.
“TÈSSA?Infermiera!”
My ears ring from his volume. I don’t know why I’m surprised he awakened with a roar. Maybe I thought he’d be more peaceful since I was ill, but nothing about him screams zen. Everything about him just screams.
“Hey.” I rest my hand on his arm. “I’m fine. No one needs to rush in here. Don’t worry.”
My reassurances seem to mean nothing as his eyes narrow. He scans my body for injuries, starting at my forehead. Tracing his fingers down my upper arm, he lifts it and checks underneath, like I’m hiding a stab wound in my ribs. I suck in asharp breath as he unintentionally shifts my IV, which I must’ve jostled in my sleep.
“What! What is it? What’s wrong?INFERMIERA!”
“Don’t call anyone, I’m fine! It’s just that my IV site is a little sore.”
A nurse power walks into the room, speaking in fast Italian to Giovanni, who is wildly gesturing. I wish I knew what they were saying. At the same time, I’m exhausted, and it’s kind of nice letting someone take over. I lean back in the bed and let Giovanni yell—or talk, hard to tell—on my behalf. Another person, pushing a rolling cart, comes in and introduces himself to me as an infusion nurse. He fiddles with my IV, flushing it out and then inserting a fresh one in my other hand.
Giovanni leans closer to me and asks, “Do you want me to tell him anything? Let me know if it hurts. I specifically asked for the nurse who gives the best IVs, but I can have them bring someone else.”
As a friend-proclaimed people pleaser, the fact that he’s making demands on my behalf horrifies me. “Oh my God, no. Tell me how to apologize for someone’s attitude in Italian so I can repair my relationship with these people you’ve been terrorizing.”
I see the infusion nurse smirk. He definitely understands what I’m working with.
Giovanni scoffs. “We need to make sure you’re fine. I didn’t like it, you know. When you had yourreaction.”
The simple way he put it makes the corners of my mouth twitch. “I didn’t like it, either.”
“So thenget with the diagram, Tessa. We need to make sure you’re getting the best care.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s ‘get with the program.’ And I’m feeling much better now. This happened before, about eight years ago. It only took me a day to recover. Daniel helped and?—”
Giovanni grimaces. “Your brother. Shit. We need to call him back, now that you’re up.”
My jaw ever-so-slightly drops. “We? Call himback? Did you… speak with my brother?”
“Of course I called your relative, Tessa, don’t be silly. You’re in the hospital.”
I flex my feet underneath the bedsheet. “How did you get his number?”
“I called Esme, who went on some social media site and found your brother’s wife’s friend’s cat’s page… Detective Purrlock Holmes, I believe. The odd man who owns the cat, Benjamin Fischer, I think his name was, then texted Grace, who informed your brother.”
I blink. “Oh. That’s, um, quite the journey.”
“After getting your medical history from Dan, I promised him that you would call once you woke up,” he tells me casually, like acquiring my personal health information is the same as receiving a weather forecast, then shoves his phone in my hands. “Here. I’ll step outside.”
“Okay, thanks,” I mumble, overwhelmed, as Giovanni leaves the room.
I made some flimsy excuse to my brother about how we needed to stop by Giovanni’s old stomping grounds for some special fabric after Milan. He knew it was a lie, I knew it was a lie, Grace knew it was a lie. Even their yellow labrador, Honey Bumble McClane, knew it was a lie. But I didn’t want to delve into the realm of playing pretend with the tailor, and they graciously let me get away with it.
Beginning to input my brother’s number, I realized it’s already saved into his phone:Tessa (Cohen) Thompson (from Lamont) Brother Daniel Thompson (New York Mustangs). Simultaneously surprised at the amount of characters allowedand the entire backstory he was able to fit into the contact line, I press the video call option.
The screen shows nothing but darkness, until a light is flipped on and a mess of red curls comes into view. “Tess, oh my God. We’re so worried, are you okay?” Grace asks, clearly in bed. It is the middle of the night there, after all.
“I’m fine?—”
“Speak for yourself, Gracie. I, for one, am not worried,” Daniel cuts in. “If anything, I’m more concerned about that man’s attitude. Concerned… and slightly scared.”
