Page 211 of Sexting His Assistant

I don’t know where the sentence came from. Maybe from sitting beside her for hours, thinking about every time I demanded logic from a woman whose whole life had been pulled apart in two days. Maybe from realizing that fear does not make rational choices, and love for a brother makes worse ones.

“Was he there?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

“Do you know where he is?” she asks.

“Not yet,” I say.

Her eyes move back to mine. “Not yet.”

“I will find him,” I say.

She swallows, and tears gather in her eyes before she can stop them. She turns her face away.

I reach up and brush one tear from her temple before it can reach her hair.

Her voice comes out small. “I hate hospitals.”

“I know,” I say.

“You don’t know that,” she breathes out, but there’s no strength in the correction.

“I know now,” I say.

Her mouth trembles, then steadies. “You stayed?”

“Yes,” I say.

“The whole time?”

“Yes,” I say.

“You didn’t go yell at everyone?”

“I yelled by phone,” I say.

She lets out the smallest breath of a laugh, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

“I will be less charming then.”

“That should be easy,” she says.

For the first time since I found her on the floor, I feel something in my chest loosen.

Only a little. Just enough to breathe.

She watches me, and her face changes again, turning serious in the softest way.

“You look scared,” she says.

I almost tell her she’s wrong. The lie would be easy. Instead, I look at her hand in mine and say, “I was.”

She goes quiet.

I continue, “When you didn’t answer, I knew. I don’t know how, but I knew.”

Her fingers shift weakly in mine. “I’m sorry.”