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“Because this is how I’m using you.”
My eyes shot open. My reflection stared at me in wary alarm. “Tanya—I thought you wanted me to write a news piece reporting on Abe’s injury?”
I knew before she answered that I was wrong, and her determined, stubborn tone confirmed it. “No. I want you to dig into this.”
I spoke slowly. “You don’t like in-depth personal pieces on concussions.”
“And yet that was the first article you pitched to me.”
Prickles spread over my skin. “You don’t just want me to write about Abe. You want me to write about Loft.”
“Smart girl.”
“You know I can’t write an unbiased report about Abe when I’m in a relationship with him.”
“I don’t want a news report. I want the readers to think it’s their boyfriend who’s losing his brain cells.”
I was silent.
Slyness crept into her voice. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’re not dying to write about what he’s going through right now. About how hurt he is. About how instead of eating breakfast in bed you’re wiping his face of sweat after he pukes for the fourth time in an hour.”
“You want me to write a feature.”
“Tamar.” Her voice turns coddling, persuasive. “This number of injuries isn’t okay. And this is your job, isn’t it? Don’t you want to be an investigative reporter?”
From behind me, I heard some noise, and I twisted my body even as my gut twisted. Was he all right? “Okay. Fine.” What were my choices, after all? This was why I was still employed. This was why Tanya had kept me around, so I could write this article. “I’ll do it.”
“I want it on my desk on Wednesday.”
Wednesday! Was she crazy? “That’s impossible.”
“Jin and Mduduzi can cover your usual stories. I mean it, Rosenfeld. This is the right stuff.”
“Fine.” My words were clipped. “You’ll have it.”
When I reentered the room, Rachael and Ryan had left. Abe lay there, tossing and turning. I took one of the wipes from the bedside table and, just as Tanya had predicted, wiped his brow. I wrapped his hand in mine, and his fingers tightened.
And then his eyes blinked open and caught on mine. “Tammy.”
I tried to smile. “Hi, Abe.”
He traced my face with his gaze, thorough and steady, and then he broke into a wide grin. “Glad you’re here,” he murmured, before he drifted back to sleep.
I stayed there another hour, worry building up and spreading through me, until it filled my body like a tightly coiled spring.
And then I withdrew my hand, opened my laptop, and in the cold blue light of the hospital, began to write.
* * *
I spent the next few days at Abe’s side, drifting in and out of sleep, working on the article, bringing him food. His parents flew out, even though he told them time and again that it was no big deal. Sharon kept hugging me. I made sure they ate too, and made sure my mom was updated.
And I kept writing.
* * *
On Tuesday night, the doctors told Abe he could go home the next day. “Thank God,” he groaned. “I can’t deal with this any longer.” He caught me looking at him. “All right, what is it?”
I sat down gingerly. “So. Loft.”
