Faker

by Sarah Smith

  “Jesus, Emmie.” Tate curses from several feet below. “Don’t lean over like that.”

  When I glance down, he’s gripping the ladder to steady it. “You can let go. I know what I’m doing.”

  He remains planted below me. “Oh really? You’re afraid of heights. Don’t be so careless.”

  A tiny punch lands in the middle of my chest. He’s right. I have no idea what I’m doing, but it still hurts to be scolded by the jerk I spent an entire postkiss weekend fawning over. A very handsome jerk who looks like a calendar model in his work clothes, while I look like a frazzled mess in yoga pants and the only clean tank top I could find in my laundry pile. Invisible steam pumps out of my ears.

  “No worries, man. I’ve got it.” My jaw drops when I look down and see Jamie standing below. Tate’s left arm remains on a middle rung, but he pulls away when I make my way down.

  The moment my feet touch the ground, Jamie pulls me into a hug. I grip onto his massive arms, which are nicely on display in a sleeveless shirt. A glowy tan covers his skin. He must have gotten a ton of sun on his trip.

  “What are you doing here?” I can’t help the cheesy grin on my face.

  “A storm was moving into the Rockies, so we left a day early. Thought I’d come over and say hi.”

  “What a great surprise.”

  He removes his hard hat, placing it on my head. “To satisfy the safety police over there.”

  Tate stares daggers at the two of us while leaning on the ladder.

  Jamie beams at me. “I’m sorry I didn’t call or text while I was gone. Doing a week of off-the-grid camping and hiking in the Rockies was a blast, but there was no cell service.”

  “No worries at all. You’re here now.”

  Jamie brushes my ponytail over my shoulder, and I let out a soft chuckle. Weirdly, Tate hasn’t moved since Jamie arrived. It occurs to me I’m flanked on either side by two very handsome, very strapping men. For a fleeting moment, I can’t remember which one I like more. There’s something hypnotic about Tate’s milky glow, how it highlights his cut musculature. I can’t seem to shake it. Then Jamie smiles at me, and heat creeps up my face. Oh, that’s right. I like him too.

  “You look lovely, by the way.” Jamie takes a step closer.

  I’m blushing hard core now. Jamie’s killer charm has me feeling fab.

  Tate scoffs loud enough to scare a nearby bird into flying away, then walks off. Jamie frowns, tipping his head in Tate’s direction, then shrugs at me.

  “I have no idea what his problem is,” I whisper.

  From the nearby worksite, a low voice hollers for Jamie.

  “I should say hi to the guys, but you up for lunch later?”

  My insides mush together. “Absolutely.”

  I try for a sweet smile. He returns a sly one before jogging away.

  Scooting the ladder over, I climb back up to take a few more aerial photos, but the sun glare makes it tough to get a clear shot. Even though I’m only about ten feet from the ground, my hands start to shake. No more height-related activities after today. I step down and hear a softly muttered curse float up from below.

  Tate scowls up at me. “You really need to be more careful. There’s gravel all over the concrete around here. The ladder isn’t steady.”

  Faint concern rings at the end of his words, almost like he cares. It softens my resolve, but just barely.

  Stomping down the ladder, I yank it out of his grip and drag it to the other end of the house. The harsh sound garners confused stares from surrounding volunteers, but I don’t care. If the only time Tate cares to talk to me is to lecture me about what a construction noob I am, I don’t want to speak to him at all.

  “I’m just trying to look out for you, okay?” he calls after me.

  I roll my eyes in an attempt to mask my embarrassment.

  At this opposite corner of the home’s exterior, the sun is behind me, meaning I can get a much clearer photo. I set up the ladder and make the wobbly climb once more, nerves shooting through my stomach. I should have made sure the ladder was on sturdy ground before I scaled it. I can’t ask Tate to run over and hold it steady, not after rejecting his help. I’d look like a fool.

  With shaky hands, I adjust my hard hat, take a bunch of quick photos, then scale back down.

  “Emmie, wait! It’s not steady—”

  The whine of metal scraping against concrete shrieks against my ear. Then I hit the ground.

  nine

  When I open my eyes, I’m lying facedown on the concrete. Slowly, I lift my hand up and touch my cheek. Bits of gravel dot the side of my face. My limbs are numb, but then the fiery burn sets in and radiates through my body. It’s not just my right side anymore; I’m aching everywhere now.

  I try to push myself up, but I don’t get more than an inch off the ground before I fall back down. My head is spinning, and white dots cloud my vision. A meek, pitiful yelp leaves my mouth. Firm hands on my back and shoulder gently haul me up to stand.

  “Are you all right?” Tate asks.

  I try to push him away, but he holds me tightly. I give up and lean into him. My head is as unsteady as a spinning top toy.

  “Hey, answer me.” His voice is urgent, but not unkind.

  “Obviously not. I just ate concrete.”

  “I can see that.”

  The sunshine is blinding, and when I squint up at him, I can barely make out his face. He seems to notice and moves, blocking the glare with the back of his head. I get a better look at him and am surprised at the deep crease of concern in his forehead.

  He brushes the gravel off my face. “Your hard hat slipped partway off when you fell, and you hit your head.” Worry fills his eyes. It’s the strangest sensation knowing that it’s meant for me.

  I wiggle out of his grip for a moment, wobbling on my own. “Um, I . . .”

  “Here. Sit down.”

  He lowers me down to the ground, leaning my back against the wood beams of the house. I search my brain for words to speak, but I can’t seem to find any. It’s like an invisible blanket has covered all the words I want to use.

  Blinking over and over is my only clarity. Then I notice that the entire Nuts & Bolts homebuilding crew has stopped working to stand around me. Seconds later, my ears register an angry tone. Tate’s angry tone.

  “So no one thought it would be wise to make sure the worksite was cleared of debris?”

  Slowly, I spin my head to look at everyone. They all have frightened, wide-eyed stares. I don’t fault them. Hostile Tate is scary.

  Tate crouches down to me. When he speaks, his tone is now soft, an impressive flip from the anger he displayed just seconds ago. “You look like you have a concussion. You need to go to the hospital.”

  I rub the left side of my head, which I now realize is faintly sore. “What are you, a doctor?”

  “No, but I’m taking you to see one right now.”

  “I can go on my own.”

  “Like hell you can. I’ll take you.”

  “Crap, Emmie, are you okay?” Jamie appears out of thin air on my right side.

  I open my mouth to speak, but Tate beats me to it. “She fell off a ladder and hit her head. She’s clearly not okay.”

  Lynn scurries over, and the three of them stand above me, converging in urgent tones. I try to focus so I can properly eavesdrop, but my head is a cloud. Nothing seems to make sense. I pull my phone from my outer thigh pocket and scroll through my texts. I can’t make sense of any of it. Slowly, panic sets in. Why can’t I read the words on my phone? Why can’t I process what everyone is saying around me?

  I elbow Tate’s leg and hold my phone up at him. “I can’t read what this says.”

  The horror in those three pairs of eyes is too much to take. Tears burn at my waterlines as I shed every bit of my professional facade. I don’t un
derstand why or how, but I’m in a dire state, and I don’t care who sees me falling apart right now.

  Not even a second later, I’m hauled up by Tate’s hands. Calloused, firm, warm hands. Hands I want to hold me forever. When I take a breath, the spice of his cologne mixed with the musk of his sweat fills my lungs. In all the chaos of this moment, it’s strangely soothing.

  Jamie reaches for me, but Tate turns me away from him. “It’s fine. I’ve got her.” The tone he uses makes it sound like a warning. Jamie steps away, crossing his arms against his chest.

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Lynn says.

  “No way.” I may be out of it, but I know that if I step foot inside an ambulance, I’ll fully lose it. The fluorescent lights, being strapped to a gurney, paramedics poking and prodding at me.

  “It’s fine. Your insurance will cover it,” Jamie says.

  “No, just . . . no. No ambulance. I mean it.” The pain hardens my voice into a strange mix of terrified and no-nonsense.

  “I’ll drive her to the hospital,” Tate says. “It’ll be faster than waiting for an ambulance anyway.”

  I nod my head in agreement. A car ride with Tate sounds infinitely better.

  Lynn puts her phone back. “Let me grab her purse, and I’ll help you walk her to your car.”

  Lynn is barely five feet two inches, and I don’t want to crush her as I wobble, so I lean most of my weight on Tate. Jamie offers to help along the way, but Tate snaps a refusal. The steady way Tate walks, he seems to support me with ease. The urge to retch hits, and I let out a single dry heave. Lynn asks if I need to stop, but I shake my head.

  “This is definitely a concussion. She needs to see a doctor now.” Tate’s blunt words register just as his car comes into view. More bickering follows.

  “This isn’t a two-person job. I said I’ve got it,” Tate barks as he lowers me into the front passenger seat.

  “Look, I’m just trying to help. Dial back the intensity, will you?” Jamie’s impatience sounds on the cusp of anger. I try to speak, but instead I heave a wad of spit onto the concrete below. I shut my eyes.

  “I don’t have time to argue with you,” Tate says. “I need to get her to the hospital.” When he touches my cheek, I open my eyes. He’s crouched down, staring at me. His entire milky forehead fills with a half dozen concerned creases. “She’s completely out of it. She needs to be at the ER now.”

  Jamie says something about calling me, but Tate shuts the door and I can’t make out the rest. Tate speeds out of the parking lot. I bounce between the door and my seat with each urgent turn and press of the gas pedal. If social media doesn’t work out, he’d make one hell of a getaway driver. We’re paused at a stoplight when he seems to remember that I’m unbuckled. He straps me in with my seat belt.

  “It’ll be okay,” he says calmly. “We’re almost there.”

  The panic filling me is in direct opposition to the slow-motion gears crowding my head. “Do you promise?” I peek up at him from under a mess of sweaty hair.

  “Promise.” He holds my gaze for a long second. “Don’t fall asleep though, okay?”

  After pulling into the parking lot, he leads me to the ER with easy strength yet again. I’m clutching at him like an injured lemur, but judging by the firm way he grips my body, he doesn’t seem to mind. In the waiting room, he takes the chair next to me and fills out my paperwork, consulting my ID and insurance card when needed. I try to say thank you, but a lump lodges in my throat.

  “Here. Come here.” He slinks his arm around me, and my face falls into the space between his shoulder and chest. How he could sense the silent panic within me, I don’t know. I’m grateful he could though, because being cuddled into him is pure divinity. I could nuzzle forever in this perfect crook.

  My eyes fly open when I remember that he said not to fall asleep. Instead, I huff a deep breath. The spicy forest aroma of his deodorant is a needed distraction. I’ll have to ask him later what brand it is. I inhale deeply, keeping my eyes shut. Not a hint of sweat in his scent. Even in the heat and humidity of this morning, he managed to stay BO-free. He is a machine.

  When I glance at the form, I notice he wrote the wrong date. I point to it. “No. That was yesterday’s date.”

  Pure relief washes over his face when he gazes at me. “You can read this?”

  I nod, then smile when I realize what a good sign that is. My gaze floats to an elderly woman across from us, smiling kindly. We must look adorable huddled together.

  Soon a nurse fetches me. Tate props me up once again, and we follow her through glass doors to an empty exam room. As I’m settled into the bed, Tate stands in the corner, staring at me in silence. The creases in his forehead remain. I want to tell him to stop frowning because it will cause premature wrinkles, but I don’t have the energy.

  The nurse takes my vitals, gives me a gown to change into, sticks an IV into me, then tells me I have to give a urine sample before the doctor can see me.

  “I don’t know if I can even pee,” I mumble. I couldn’t stomach anything other than a glass of water this morning, the pain in my side was so bad, and I sweat it all out during the first five minutes on the worksite.

  “Well, you have to try. If you can’t pee, I’ll have to take it from you with a catheter, and trust me, you don’t want that,” she says flippantly while gazing at her watch and checking the pulse in my wrist.

  She hands me a plastic cup and walks out of the room. Tate glowers at her; I assume because of her impersonal bedside manner. I lean up from the bed.

  “Don’t stand up by yourself.” He rushes over and slides my legs over the edge. “Do you need help?”

  With what little strength I have, I roll my eyes. “No way in hell you’re helping me pee. Or change.”

  He sighs and leads me to the toilet despite my false claims that I can walk on my own. I take a moment to steady myself against the closed door. After undressing, I toss the flimsy gown on and tie it in the back. A measly amount of dark yellow urine is all I’m able to squeeze into the cup, which I leave on the ledge of the sink before washing up. Tate practically carries me back to the bed.

  The nurse returns, this time with a forty-something man wearing a white coat and stethoscope around his neck. The doctor, I assume. He introduces himself before asking what happened, and I explain my fall. He inquires about any pain or injuries. I mention the allover soreness and the ache in my right side.

  The doctor presses and prods me, asking me to move various limbs and describe the pain.

  “Nothing seems broken, which is good. There’ll be bruises and scrapes, but the soreness will fade after a few days. Can you tell me what your name is?”

  “Emmaline Echavarre. I go by Emmie, though.”

  “Good. Emmie, can you tell me what day it is?”

  “Friday.”

  “Very good. And where are you right now?”

  “The hospital emergency room.”

  From the corner, Tate huffs a sigh. He seems relieved.

  The doctor flashes a penlight in my eyes, then presses around the injured side of my head. “I don’t see any bruising on your head, which is good. Did you throw up?”

  “I dry heaved once and spit saliva, but I didn’t throw up. I haven’t eaten anything today, though.”

  Tate explains how I was able to read the registration form in the waiting room. The doctor nods and scribbles some notes in his clipboard. “It sounds like you’ve had a minor concussion. It’s an excellent sign that you seemed to have regained cognitive ability after about fifteen minutes of feeling out of sorts. I think you’ll be just fine, but we’d like to keep you overnight at the hospital for observation, just to be extra sure. That sound okay?”

  I nod and close my eyes. Then I remember the warning about sleeping and peel them open.

  By the way he chuckles, the doctor seems to read th
e thought tumbling through my mind. “Tired?”

  “A little.”

  He squints at the clipboard. “It’s okay to sleep if you feel tired, actually. The nurses will check up on you periodically once we admit you to a room upstairs. We’ll wake you up every couple hours to make sure you’re doing okay. If your boyfriend can stay with you and keep you company, too, that’s even better.”

  “Oh no, he’s . . .”

  The gentle frown crowding Tate’s face halts me. The doctor and the nurse probably don’t care that he’s not my boyfriend, just a coworker who I shared a hot car make-out with.

  When the doctor leaves, the nurse says someone will be in soon to fetch me and take me to a room upstairs. She walks out the door, leaving Tate and me alone once more.

  “I wasn’t trying to make it seem like you and I—I mean, I didn’t want to get into . . .”

  He holds up a hand, then a half smile crawls across his face. “Don’t even worry about it.”

  “You can leave. I’ll be fine here alone.”

  His smile drops.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I just, I assumed you’d be tired from all you did today. And that you’d be sick of me.”

  “I’m not,” he says quietly.

  There’s eagerness behind his eyes, and I realize he truly wants to stay with me. My stomach flips with excitement and relief. And then it hits me: I want Tate here with me, too, no one else.

  “Then stay here with me. If you want.”

  With his calming blue-gray eyes, he holds my gaze. They’re the perfect hue to warm up this sterile white room.

  “I’d love to,” he says.

  ten

  One hour later, I’m in a private room on the fourth floor. Tate walks to the window, whipping open the curtains before walking back to my bedside.

  “What time is it?”

  He checks the clock on the wall. “Almost six.”

  I mouth, “Wow,” silently to myself. I should have known from the dark orange sunlight shining behind the concrete tower crowding my window view. Tate has taken care of me and been by my side for the past few hours. He’s watched me fall, smoothed my hair back, consoled me, held me, propped me up when I couldn’t walk. Now he gets to watch me struggle to relax while I recover from a concussion.