by Jenna Gunn
I’m briefly overwhelmed with painful coughs, and Amanda waits patiently for the fit to subside. “Not assigning blame to anyone but yourself clearly marks you as a hero,” she says after I’m able to gulp down some water. “Don’t you agree?”
“I’m not,” I insist. “I just did my job. I’m really glad everyone survived; that’s all I really care about.”
“But - ”
“That’s enough, now!” says a different voice from the doorway. As one, Amanda, Tony, and I all look over as a stern-faced nurse walks briskly into my room. “He’s answered enough questions. This man needs rest.”
Amanda smiles. “Of course. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Whitmore. Get well soon.”
“Thanks,” I croak.
The nurse steps aside as they file out past her; Tony manages to turn and get a shot of the flowers and balloons lined up on my windowsill. Each member of my crew has already sent me something.
“News crews are a bit like vultures, ain’t they?” the nurse asks casually, crossing the room to my bed.
“A bit.” I cough again.
“How’s your chest feel?”
“Hurts some.”
“You should get some sleep.”
I nod wearily; I was up most of the night coughing. I wait as the nurse checks my vitals and presses a button on my IV to start pumping some sort of painkiller into my veins.
“Should be easier for you to rest now.” The nurse steps back and adjusts my blankets. “Need anything?”
“Some more water,” I say. My voice sounds like it’s coming from down a long hallway; the painkiller is already working.
“He’ll be asleep soon,” the nurse says. I blink, not sure who she’s talking to.
“I’ll hang out anyways.” The answering voice is definitely Alyssa’s. I hear Clara babble something as well.
“Lyssi my sissy?” I mumble, earning some soft chuckles.
A hand closes over mine. “Yeah, Klex, it’s me,” Alyssa’s voice says. I can’t see her. Oh - my eyes are closed. I try to open them. They won’t open. I think I’m falling asleep.
“Klex!” Clara says.
“Hey, Clara-bee.” My voice is hoarse. My words are slurred. My eyelids are so heavy that I couldn’t pry them open with crowbars.
I feel Alyssa pat my hand. “Klex has to sleep,” she says to Clara.
“But why?” she whines.
I think I dream about bumblebees.
Chapter 22
The smell of soy sauce drifts up from the frying pan on the stove. The dry leftover noodles sizzle on the heat; a plume of steam gushes up as I drop in the veggies.
“Carmen, stop!” I cry out as she jumps onto the counter and starts edging toward the stove. “Bad kitty!” I reach for the spray bottle and spray her with it; she darts off the counter and shoots out of the room. Monroe yowls as she rushes past. I grab the remote and push the volume button up so that the news anchors’ voices drown out my cats and the loud sizzling of the frying pan.
I just want to make my stir fry, eat it in front of the TV, and then go write. Is that so much to ask? Carmen has developed the extra fun habit of jumping onto counters and creeping too close to heat sources, Monroe tends to get loud any time he thinks Carmen is in distress, and my head is swirling with millions of ideas regarding my new romance, which I’ve already started writing.
I don’t normally take so much time to make my own dinner. Usually a frozen dinner or a pack of instant noodles suffices. But not even an hour ago, I sent the last chapters of my Regency-era book off to my agent, and dammit, I deserve a treat. I’ve always loved stir fry, and a few nights ago I made spaghetti, hence the leftover noodles - tonight is perfect for it!
Or it would be, if my cats would shut up.
“Monroe, please,” I beg him as he winds his way around my ankles. “I know you smell chicken, but come on.” I do my best to shuffle away from the stove with Monroe clinging to me like a pair of fuzzy leg warmers.
I snatch a sticky note off the counter and scribble down hectic, stressful cooking scene before slapping the note to the fridge.
I lean back against the counter and watch as Monroe slinks around my legs. His orange fur brushes against my skin. It’s soft, sleek; a sort of comforting presence that one longs for when things are uncertain...and uncertainty does plague me, washes over me with every breath; oh, the times in which we live, the darkness that beckons at our door; the sounds of marching feet and banging drums, falsely cheerful flutes and penny whistles…
I have to snatch another sticky note and write that all down. All I can think of is this book.
Which might be why I’m so startled when I hear something vaguely familiar drift out of the TV.
“Well, there was some structural damage,” says Alex’s voice.
“Alex Whitmore was one of the firefighters on the scene,” the voiceover says matter-of-factly as footage of a burned-out warehouse lights up my television. “A member of the first crew to arrive, Whitmore was the first one inside the building - and he successfully rescued all six workers trapped inside. Derek Greene, the supervisor on shift that night, holds him in high regard.”
“He saved every one of us.” A small bald man sits in a blue plastic chair, adjusting his glasses. He’s clearly in a hospital waiting room. “I honestly wouldn’t be alive if not for him.”
The scene switches to a man in full firefighting gear, his hair matted to his head with sweat, his helmet and mask tucked under his arm. Blue and red lights flash behind him. “It was all Alex. Of course we put out the fire, but Alex is the one we trust to go inside and get people.” The man shrugs. “That’s just how he’s always been. He’s a hero.”
“I’m just - it’s just my job.” They’ve switched to Alex. I put my hand over my mouth; he’s lying in a hospital bed, looking strangely frail. His voice is hoarse. “That doesn’t make me a hero.”
“In the interview with your crew last night, every single one of them identified you as the reason everyone escaped the fire alive,” the interviewer retorts. It’s Amanda Fairway. I’ve always liked her.
Alex looks shocked for a moment. He chews on his lip. “They said that?” he asks softly.
The scene switches again, showing more of his crew singing his praises, introducing some of the workers who gush about how brave Alex was when he rescued them. I watch in utter fascination. There’s a tightening in my chest. All other noises seem to fade into the background.
“Whitmore was even hospitalized for smoke inhalation and several minor injuries,” Amanda’s voice says.
“Occupational hazard,” Alex says onscreen, smiling and spreading his hands.
I drift toward the television as the scene switches again. Amanda is standing in front of the burned-out warehouse, which is a darkened husk even in direct sunlight. Her monologue is punctuated by footage of debris inside. She gives stats about the fire and the warehouse itself, but I tap my foot, impatiently waiting for Alex to come onscreen again. When it flashes to another location my heart skips a beat, but it’s just Derek Greene again.
“It’s my fault he’s injured,” the man says heavily. He moves his hands; I see a plastic tag around his wrist. He’s not just sitting in a hospital - he’s a patient. “I was panicking, and I knocked his mask off.”
It cuts to Alex again, who’s shaking his head. I lean forward. My breaths are shallow. I’m rooted to the spot, connected through this dumb screen to the man behind it.
“No, that probably wasn’t his fault.”
Amanda’s voiceover interrupts him briefly to say, “Whitmore refuses to assign blame to anyone else for his injuries.”
“It was probably an equipment malfunction. Or operator error.” I find myself smiling back as Alex grins, and then he begins coughing; harsh, raking coughs, the kind that sound as painful as they look. My heart lurches. Hospital beds automatically make anyone look smaller, but I’m surprised at the effect it has on him; how could a man so huge, so broad, look so tiny an
d helpless?
Amanda’s voiceover kicks up again. She summarizes the whole story - succinctly and professionally, which is part of why I’ve always liked her - and concludes with how everyone involved has been insisting that Alex is an absolute hero.
The news story ends with a shot of Alex in his bed again. “You can’t be a firefighter and not want to save people.” The angle switches to a close-up; he’s looking earnestly, almost irritated, at Amanda. “I’m really glad everyone survived,” he says fervently. Though hoarse, his voice is strong, solemn. “That’s all I really care about.”
“Amanda Fairway, Channel 4.”
It cuts back to the anchors at the desk. “Thanks, Amanda. Our next story tonight - ”
I turn away. I don’t care about the next story tonight.
Everything everyone has been saying to me starts to coalesce. I’m an idiot. I’ve been searching for a chivalrous, old-fashioned man. If any occupation was a modern-day knight, it would be something like a firefighter. Alex rescues people. He does it willingly at great personal risk. He’s lying in a hospital bed right now because he saved six people from an inferno last night. What was I doing last night? Writing a book? Forming a main character based off the man that was, as I sat, plunging into hell to save people who didn’t even know his name?
I have to go see him. I’m not even sure what I’ll say; I suppose I can think about it on the way there. But somehow, I have to let him know that he’s been right all along, and that I’m an absolute idiot.
I haven’t been holding out for some sort of perfect man. I’ve been ignoring the one man I found, too scared to admit it to myself.
A loud, ear-splitting beeping rips through the air; Monroe shoots down the hall like a dart from a blowgun, Carmen close behind, jumping from her place on the counter she’d managed to sneak to while I was distracted. Smoke billows up from the pan on the stove.
I rush over and yank it off the heat, turning the burner off. The food inside is nothing more than black lumps. The beeping continues until I find the fire alarm and press the little button to reset it; the smoldering lumps of what would have been dinner crackle feebly in the pan, and the news anchors drone loudly about some historical festival coming to town.
Disappointed, I toss the burnt food in the trash. It must be a sign; I’ve got to go see him now.
Chapter 23
I’m inside my car before I realize, stunned, that I have no clue which hospital to drive to.
I call up Ms. Lynn; she answers promptly, out of breath. “Hon, did you see - ”
“The news?” I interrupt, jamming my key into the ignition. “With Alex? Yeah.”
“Are you in your car?” she asks incredulously.
“You saw the story, then?” I ask.
“Of course!” she replies, and relief washes over me.
“Do you think you know which hospital that is?”
She’s quiet for a moment; I can hear her smile when she says, “I recognize the waiting room. I can give you the address.”
It’s pretty much a straight shot to St. Francis, where Ms. Lynn is certain they’re holding Alex. It’s a fairly nice hospital just outside of Charleston. I circle the parking lot for a bit, searching for an empty space. There seem to be quite a lot of cars here.
I give up hope on finding a space that’s close; I end up giving myself a long walk to the building, which would be fine if it didn’t start raining.
“Awesome,” I say to no one in particular, breaking into a brisk jog. The rain comes down in sheets. By the time I arrive at the big glass doors leading into the main lobby, I’m completely soaked; inside, the air conditioner raises goosebumps all along my arms. I feel that my clothes might freeze permanently to my skin.
The lobby buzzes with activity. There’s a long line at the receptionist desk, and I stand shivering at the back of it, looking curiously around at the tan-and-white tiled floor and plastic chairs. Hospitals have always been strange to me; they have a fake quality about them, false cheer forced into being by the calming colors and potted plants. People sit on couches just a too clean, a tad less comfortable than they look. Stiff portraits of people in lab coats line the walls. It’s like a sad hotel.
I’m not paying attention to anyone in line ahead of me. My brain churns as it tries to string words together, to connect sentences in some form that will help me talk to Alex. The cold seeps into my bones; water drips from my hair down the back of my neck.
Finally, it’s my turn. I watch the woman ahead of me jerkily move toward the door and leave the hospital altogether. She looks angry, disappointed.
“Yes?” the receptionist asks wearily. She’s an older woman, maybe in her forties or fifties. Her dark hair is swept up into a bun and streaked with gray. Her nametag just reads Brenda.
“Hi,” I say.
She stares up at me.
“Um, I’m looking for Alex Whitmore’s room?”
“You and every other girl here.” She gestures to the room behind me.
Baffled, I look over my shoulder and realize with a start that every single person there is a young woman. Some are clearly on their own, some congregate in groups. Most are dressed in ways that flatter their figures.
“Why?” I blurt out, scanning the small crowd.
“Same reason as you. They saw the interview. They fell in love. Move along, ma’am. Someone in this line might actually need legitimate help.”
I shake my head and turn back to her. “No, I actually know Alex,” I tell her.
“Sure you do, hon. Next in line, please!” she adds, raising her voice.
“No, not next in line!” I snap at the woman behind me, who winces and takes a step back. My heart pounds in my chest. “Call him, if you don’t believe me! Ask him if Raina Groves can come and see him!” Would he want to see you, after how you’ve been? a voice in my head asks; I push the thought away.
“Honey, I’ve had people claiming to be his sister, his cousin, and Michelle Pfeiffer.” Brenda the receptionist types something on her keyboard. “I have a list right here of people allowed to see him, and you’re not on it.”
“I have to see him,” I say, slamming my hands down on the desk. I feel bad; this woman is just doing her job, after all. But I need to get to him. I have to tell him how I really feel; I have to apologize. “Just call his room.” I’m pleading now, almost whining. “Tell him Raina Groves is here.”
She stares at me impassively. “If you don’t move, I’m calling security.”
I feel myself shaking, but whether it’s from my cold, wet clothes or nerves, I can’t tell. I stare into the receptionist’s expressionless, steel-gray eyes, and she stares back, unimpressed.
“Excuse me,” says a voice nearby.
Our staring contest ends as we both glance toward the source; it’s a woman about my height with short-cropped brown hair, a very pretty face, and a toddler, who she holds expertly on one hip. “Did you say Raina Groves?”
I don’t know who this woman is. “Yes?” I reply timidly.
She grins and offers me her hand to shake. “I’m Alyssa Marks. Alex’s sister.”
I shake her hand as my heart starts its rapid pounding again. Is she going to kick me out? Help me? I really can’t tell.
Alyssa smiles over at the receptionist. “It’s okay, Brenda. I’ll vouch for her. Come on,” she adds to me, closing her fingers over my wrist so I that I don’t pull away. “I’ll take you up to see Alex.”
Brenda shrugs and turns to deal with the next young woman in line as Alyssa tugs me toward the elevators.
“Thanks,” I say, teeth chattering. I can’t think of anything else.
“Oh, sweetheart, you are soaked,” she sighs. She lets go of me as we reach the elevator doors. “I’ve got a change of clothes out in my car, if you want it.”
“I - I’m okay,” I stammer, tucking my hands under my armpits to keep them warm.
She raises her eyebrows. “The gift shop’s on the second floor,” she offers. �
��It’s freezing in here even without looking like a drowned rat. Or leaking,” she adds, glancing meaningfully down at the floor.
I follow her gaze and realize my clothes are dripping. I’m making a puddle on the tile. “Maybe the gift shop would be a good idea,” I concede.
“All righty. I’ll take you there.”
The doors slide open and we go inside. The toddler is motionless; she’s out cold with her head resting against Alyssa’s shoulder and her mouth wide open. “She looks tuckered out,” I say, gesturing to the kid.
“Yeah, we’ve been here for a bit,” Alyssa replies as she presses the button for the second floor. “I was thinking about taking her home.”
“Am I holding you up?” I ask, alarmed.
“Nah.”
She doesn’t offer any explanation, and we both fall silent, making the two-second elevator ride seem to take hours. I glance over at her. Why is she helping me? What’s happening?
When the doors slide open again, I’m met with nothing but a long, blank hallway with a placard on the wall covered in confusing arrows; Alyssa, however, seems to know her way around just fine. She turns left out of the elevator. I follow.
The gift shop, of course, doesn’t exactly specialize in clothes. It’s full of things like flowers, teddy bears, balloons, get-well cards, angel figurines...I navigate to their small selection of T-shirts, none of which are in my size, and rifle through them. I can either choose wearing the hospital’s logo, a touristy Charleston shirt, or something kitschy. I grab the Charleston one and pair it with some very loud leggings and cheap rubber flip-flops.
Alyssa waits outside a nearby bathroom while I change into my overpriced - and oversized, in the case of the T-shirt - outfit and shove my wet clothes into the plastic bag from the shop. I immediately feel better, even though I look somewhat ridiculous.
“You look so much more comfy,” Alyssa sighs when we start heading back to the elevator. I’m unsure if that’s a compliment.