“Quiet down. She’s asleep.”
“Why? What’s wrong? What’s going on?” A pause. “Is she hurt?”
Oh no. Panicked, I finger-comb my messy hair and yank my gigantic Velvet Underground T-shirt back so it’s not hanging off my shoulder. But the doctor isn’t going to let Arthur stomp in here, and eventually, he’ll admit defeat like anyone else and leave me alone. He can do that. Arthur can throw in the towel.
“You know I can’t tell you a patient’s medical status,” the doctor replies.
“You have to. That’s my girlfriend.”
He didn’t.
“Oh… Mr. Bianco, I apologize. I had no idea.”
“Yeah. And if I can’t see her for myself, then you need to tell me if she’s okay. You have to.”
He did.
“Well, I can make an exception this once. Let me ask Ms. Graywood if she’s okay with—”
The door cracks open, then swings all the way, and Arthur is stepping into the clinic room. His face is pink, tense, anxious, and he keeps his broad back to the door as he shuts it behind him with one calculated hand, the doctor left on the other side. Our eyes meet, and his mask pops on: expressionless frown, relaxed brows. As if he was just walking down the hall and saw a distant enemy he wanted to say hi to.
“Hey,” he says casually.
I swallow. Does he think I didn’t just hear him on the other side of the door? “Hi.”
He nods, satisfied, like me being able to form words was the first test he wanted to run. And maybe Ididhallucinate Arthur’s conversation, the fake-boyfriending, that he seemed to care why I was in here, because he seems very composed as he crosses to the stiff chair by my bed. Not frantic at all.
He sits. Elbows on the armrests, legs crossed at the ankle. Taps his fingers on the curved plastic arm. Takes a breath, and glances at my face.
“What’s up? Are you… okay?”
His words are strained. I nod, shifting to sit up more. “Just a cold. Oh, Arthur, you can’t be in here.” My hand jumps to my mouth. “The doctor said I might be contagious.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine.”
“No, really, this cough sucks.”
“It’sfine,” he repeats.
Okay. It’s fine. I slump down, letting the plastic headboard support most of my weight; my abdominals are currently spinning with cold meds and confusion, and aren’t that great at being muscles. Arthur’s eyes track my movements, then his jaw shifts, left, right, and he looks at the window.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he says.
Hmm, why didn’t I call the person I’m supposed to not care about at all? “Qualifying is today,” I say, opting to skip past the wholeyou’re not my emergency contactof it all.
Arthur shakes his head, clearly unhappy. “Did you tell Max?”
“Yeah, I did—oh. Sorry, I didn’t even think of that. Did he come up and annoy you or something?” I blink, realizing there’s a way more important question. “Why are you here?”
“Wrist sprain from Spa,” he answers quickly. “Not a big deal. And no.”
“No?”
“He didn’t… But you should’ve told him to stay with you.”
Okay, I’m officially very confused, and I don’t think it’s the slight fog from the cough meds. Arthur knows that Max sitting in my clinic room, watching me watch TV, is my personal version of Dante’s Inferno—all nine spicy layers.
“It’s just a cold,” I say. “I don’t need anyone.”
