ELEVEN
Max
We don't get back from the hospital until well past midnight. I help Kate get Lauren settled, say goodnight, go back to my room, and stare at the ceiling until five-thirty before giving up entirely.
By six I'm dressed. By six-forty-five I’ve finished a quick workout and by seven I'm sweet-talking the catering crew into starting a pot of coffee. By seven-thirty I'm at Lauren's door, greeted by a squinting, sleepy Kate.
“Did Lauren get any sleep?”
“Geez, Max, you're up early,” Damien calls from somewhere inside the suite.
“Always am,” I call out.
Kate steps aside and I walk in carrying two large cups of coffee. Mom's got a full day of activities planned for the guests, starting at nine with a bottomless mimosa brunch. Probably not the best idea after last night, but the Hastings know how to party.
“A few hours,” Kate says. “She's still in the other room, but she managed to hop to the bathroom herself.” She glances toward the closed bedroom door. “It might be a challenge keeping her still today.”
Damien is sprawled on the pull-out sofa, one arm over his eyes. He raises two fingers in greeting without opening them. “Mornin', bro.”
“Comfy?” I ask.
“I've slept in worse places.” He drops his arm and looks up at me, then at Kate. “Great company, though.”
Kate giggles. Damien reaches up and rubs her back.
I look away before I have to witness whatever comes next and direct myself toward the bedroom door. I knock.
“Come in if you have coffee. Stay out if you don't.”
I ease the door open.
She's sitting up against the headboard in a pink tank top, her long dark hair loose over her shoulders. If it weren't for the cast propped on a pillow, I'd never have guessed she spent half the night in an emergency room. She looks that fresh. The room smells like soap and coconut something — shampoo, maybe, or lotion — and morning light is coming through the gap in the curtains.
“I anticipated your needs,” I say, handing her the large cup.
She wraps both hands around it, holds it under her nose, and closes her eyes. The expression on her face is one of bliss.
“Thank you,” she says. “You are a genuinely good human.”
She takes a long sip and lets out a groan of satisfaction. “And I am so sorry about your phone. I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” I wander to the sliding glass door and push it open slightly. The balcony looks out over the Starlight River through the cypress trees, the same gold-green light I’d tried to photograph on the drive back from the lawyers. I’d meant to glance at it. I stand there a moment longer than I intend to. “I have a backup.”
“Of course you do.”
“I'm prepared for most contingencies.”
“Most?”
“I didn't anticipate the visit to the ER last night.” I glance back at her. “That one was outside my planning parameters. But I think we handled it like champs. Especially you.”
She laughs — a real one, unguarded — and something in my chest does something I'm not going to examine too closely at seven in the morning.
I pull a chair to the edge of the bed and sit with my own coffee. “How's the pain?”
“Manageable. The ibuprofen is doing something. Not everything, but something.” She shifts against the headboard and winces slightly. “Did Dr. Dos Santos really say six weeks?”
“She did.”
