Eye Contact Page 11

  “Actually, I do need some underwear.”

  “Oh, right.” She got quiet.

  “And my toothbrush, toothpaste, and for the love of God, please bring me my electric shaver. It’s right there on my bathroom counter. I look like a lumberjack.”

  She chuckled again.

  “I think my tablet is on my nightstand. No idea where the charging cable is, though, but if you can find it, I’d love to read.” I was normally a paperback kind of guy, but not knowing how much longer I would be in the hospital, I didn’t want her to have to bring a bunch of books. “I’m so bored in here. I don’t even have my cell phone. I guess it was lost in the accident.”

  “I can get you another one later today, and most of your stuff should be backed up. How much longer are you going to be there? Are you okay? What happened to you?” she inquired, genuinely concerned.

  “We’ll talk when you get here. I’m in room four forty-one.”

  “Okay but, are you—do you, like, look normal? I’m not going to walk in to find you missing half your face or something, right?” She nervously laughed at her poor attempt at humor. “Oh, God—is half of your face missing? Now I’m going to feel like such an ass.”

  “You are being an ass, but my face is all here, so no worries. I’m not a grotesque, maimed freak or anything.” If you didn’t consider a broken leg and a scar all the way down my middle freakish. All she would see was my leg, though.

  “Okay. Sure. That’s reassuring enough. I’ll probably be a half hour or so. Unless—what about food? Can you eat normal stuff? Want me to bring you lunch?”

  “Dear God, YES!” I replied raucously. “You are definitely getting a raise now.”

  “I’m holding you to that. What do you want?”

  “Peddlers!” I answered without hesitation.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously. I’m so sick of this bland hospital cafeteria food. Get me the pad thai, as spicy as they can make it, and a few orders of roti canai—oh, and pork char sui, and a few spring rolls too.” I wanted the entire menu and was practically salivating at the thought of it.

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Are you allowed to eat all that spicy stuff?” she nagged with concern.

  “I’ve been on a regular diet for two days. They gave me beefaroni, and yesterday it was fried chicken. Seriously, I’m not on any restrictions, and I’m dying for some flavor over here. If only you could bring me a beer too.”

  “I’m not bringing you beer. You’re in the hospital.”

  “I know, I know. I’ll see you soon. I really appreciate you doing all of this.”

  What a lifesaver. My morale had instantly been boosted, and I was actually looking forward to seeing a friend, if you could really call her that.

  I was just glancing to see that a little over an hour had passed since we talked when there was a knock on my door. Angela entered carrying a plastic grocery bag full of food containers in one hand and a duffle bag in the other with a pillow stuffed under her arm. She struggled to get inside with it all and heaved the duffle into one of the chairs, releasing a giant exhalation of relief once it was out of her hands. She turned to set the food on my bedside table and finally looked at my face. Her eyes went wide at first and then relaxed as if she’d caught herself.

  “You look like shit,” she sputtered. “I mean, whoa.”

  “Thanks. I feel like shit.” I immediately reached over and began opening my takeout containers of Asian food, the smell of it spreading throughout the room and making my mouth water in anticipation. “You didn’t get yourself something?” I asked, seeing that there weren’t any extra containers of food.

  “Nah. I’m good.” She retrieved my laptop out of the duffle, setting it on a table in the corner of the room and plugging it in. Next was the tablet, which she apparently had found the charging cord for. “There. You’ll be back in touch with your technology in no time. As far as your phone, you should be able to log on to your service provider account and order a new one. I’ll be happy to pick it up for you and bring it tomorrow.”

  “That would be amazing. If you’ll hand me my wallet from up in that cabinet, I’ll get you a card so you can pay for it.” She gave me my wallet and I pulled out my business credit card, handing it over to her with a look that asked, Can I trust you with this? She responded with a look that answered, Gimme a break, as she snatched it from my hands.

  “No sweat. So what in the world happened?” she asked, sitting down with a thud.

  I told her everything I remembered from that night, driving around on my bike and getting hit almost head on, the world going black in an instant. She sat with a look of shock on her face as I listed my injuries and described the surgeries I had required.

  “Man, you’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I know. I’m not sure about the other driver either. The only thing anyone would tell me is that he was taken to another hospital because they usually don’t bring two traumas in at the same time.”

  If I was on a motorcycle, unprotected, and lived, and the driver of the SUV hadn’t made it, I wasn’t sure how I would live with that, especially with what happened in the past. I never found out who called 911 or any further details but I knew I hadn’t deserved the kindness and the guilt consumed me.

  “I’ve got quite a ways to go, too,” continuing. I was nervous to proceed with the next topic of discussion but decided it wasn’t going to get any easier or less awkward with any further delay. “Which brings me to my next question…”

  “Yeah?”

  Pulling the blanket toward me to expose my right leg, I elaborated. “I won’t be able to drive for a while, probably a couple of weeks still.”

  “Sucks to be you,” was all she retorted.

  “Yep, it sure does. Anyway, I’ll have to go to some appointments once I’m discharged and I’ll need—”

  “A ride?” she prompted, cutting me off. “Of course. I can take you wherever you need.”

  “Oh, good. That would be great. A caseworker came in here earlier and threatened me with going to some sort of rehab center for even longer if I didn’t have family or someone to help me at home. I really just want to be at my house.” I watched her for a reaction, but she wasn’t very forthcoming with any. She sat stoically, not protesting anything I had suggested so far. She leaned over to pull the laptop on top of her thighs and lifted the lid to boot it up.

  “I’m fine with helping you, but I’m no nurse. The sight of blood makes me barf so you’re going to have to find someone else for that,” she warned.

  “I’m not going to be bleeding from anywhere. Don’t worry.”

  I watched as she typed in the password to get into my profile without asking what it was, glancing over at me with a devious grin. Apparently, I needed to change my passwords to something tougher to crack. As she worked to bring up my email account for work, I observed her quietly. She was probably twenty-two or twenty-three but looked about seventeen. Short and thin, she wore clothing that was mostly black and tight, usually leggings or tights of some sort, and always big clunky black combat boots. That day was no different. Her hair was cut into a short pixie style and she wore simple silver jewelry, including a stud in her nostril.

  “Okay, I’m in. You’ve definitely gotten behind on emails, so I’ll try to answer some of these for you today.”

  She read aloud a few she had questions about and made notes on a scratch piece of paper about a few things she didn’t have confidence she would remember later. We were both startled when a meek knock sounded on my door.

  Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any better, Dr. Fine walked in. Her face showed surprise to see someone else in my room.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back,” she said quietly, looking almost bashful.

  “No, no, no,” I insisted, all but begging her to stay. “She needs to get going anyway.” I cast a look to Angela that made it clear I wanted her to go. The look on her face started wi
th puzzlement but quickly transitioned into understanding.

  “Oh! Right. I’ve got what I need here, Vau—Mr. Bennett. I’ll be in communication with you post haste on the status quo and all the matters at hand.” She overcompensated in her confusion and ended up sounding ridiculous, giving me an apologetic look as she exited the room in a hurry. Andie stood still and bewildered, waiting to speak until the door clicked closed.

  Chapter 18

  Vaughn

  “I really could have come back another time.”

  “No, please. Come in,” I implored.

  She leisurely moved farther into the room, tentative and unsure of whether to sit or stand. Clothed in her white lab coat over light blue scrubs, she looked professional and official.

  “Sit, please,” I encouraged. I felt the need to offer an explanation as to who had just been in my room. “That was my assistant. She brought me some of my personal items from home and she’s taking care of a few things at work for me while I’m here.”

  She didn’t sit but did engage in conversation. “It smells like she brought you lunch too.” She took in the unmistakable aroma of Peddlers that filled the room.

  I smiled. “I was craving it. Hospital food isn’t really my jam. There’s plenty here if you want some,” I offered, holding up a takeout box.

  “Oh, no thanks. You enjoy.”

  “You sure?” I enticed. “Have you ever had Peddlers?”

  “Of course,” she replied defensively. “It’s one of my favorite places.”

  “Then how can you say no?”

  She giggled at my attempt at playful banter, relaxing her posture. “I just had lunch. Plus, it would probably be frowned upon to eat a meal with a patient in their room.”

  “Ah, the ever-looming concern of maintaining the utmost professionalism rears its head again.” I meant to come off teasing, but she tightened her lips and her posture. “I’m kidding, doc. I’m sorry. Now I’ve gone and made you uncomfortable again.”

  “It’s okay. We probably should get it over with now—the elephant in the room,” she replied.

  I made a spectacle of glancing around, craning my neck to look left and right, down at the floor and behind my bed. “What elephant? I see no elephant.”

  She smiled sweetly and relaxed again.

  “Seriously…” She paused, taking a breath. “Vaughn, my job is very important to me. You seem like a nice guy, but I really shouldn’t be coming into your room for any reason other than to perform your health examinations and discuss your plan of care.”

  Her tone was stern and inflexible, and it felt like someone had punched me in the chest.

  “Not even to bring me a sketchbook and colored pencils, leaving them behind with no note attached, all sneaky like in the dark of night?” I was pushing, but I felt the need to be aggressive and take the risk.

  “It was not in the middle of the night, and you were getting an X-ray,” she defended. “I wasn’t sneaking at all, just busy.”

  “So it was you,” I prodded. “I knew it.”

  “I was just trying to be nice.”

  “It was very nice.” I didn’t want her to regret the kind gesture. “I was slowly dying of boredom and you saved me…again.”

  “I do what I can,” she joked with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “You’re excellent at what you do, truly.”

  Her cheeks blushed slightly, uncomfortable with the compliment.

  “And I want to continue to be,” she said, clearing her throat. “But something about your case in particular has me—well, all…”

  “Flustered?” I suggested.

  “Yes!” she affirmed with a frustrated exhalation.

  “I don’t mean to fluster you. Honestly, I just like you.” There. I said it.

  She sighed, defeated. “You don’t even know me.”

  “But I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

  Because we’ve met before and I’ve been looking for you since I was eleven years old.

  “But you haven’t, and I’m sure you’re very nice and all, but I’m your doctor. We can’t be friends. It’s a conflict of interest and ethically wrong for me to carry on any kind of relationship with you.”

  “Whoa, Andie. Friends to a relationship in a matter of seconds—don’t you think that’s moving a little fast? I should probably at least buy you dinner first,” I teased, wanting desperately to crack through her armor. The way she looked at me—like a mother would look at her child who’d just gotten busted stealing money out of her purse—was not encouraging.

  “I could get fired.”

  “You’re not going to get fired.”

  “Maybe not, but all it would take is for one person to get the wrong idea, one nosey gossipy person to say the wrong thing to the wrong person for me to be brought in front of the medical review board.” She stared away from me into space, needing to verbalize all her concerns, so I sat, patient and attentive. “Everything I’ve fought for, everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve would fall to the wayside. My reputation would be tarnished. Doubt would be introduced and would spread like a wildfire in a windstorm.” The volume of her voice faded like she was talking to herself.

  “It’s just dinner.”

  Her eyes shot up and pierced into me with condemnation.

  “Or lunch?”

  Her jaw tensed, lips set into a straight line.

  “Coffee then?”

  “Vaughn, no! I can’t.” And that was that. She was decisive and the door was closed—not even just closed but slammed shut and dead-bolted.

  “We can’t even be friends?”

  I didn’t want to be friend-zoned, but if that was the only method available for getting to know her, I’d have to settle.

  “I mean, if I happen to see you out in public, I’ll say hello and be cordial, maybe even ask how you’re doing, but I’m not giving you my personal number and making plans to hang out on the weekends or anything.”

  “Fair enough,” I said, resigned. “I wish it were different.” My eyes lingered on hers a little longer than necessary as I finished that statement, wanting so badly to just blurt it all out and tell her, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. How do you go back to being strangers with someone who has not only literally been inside your body but has also branded herself into your soul? The timing just wasn’t right to bare my truth. The scenario felt forced, and honestly I was terrified.

  “I’m sorry that it’s not, but I’ve thought about this a lot and I can’t afford any complications in my life right now.”

  “Wow, I’ve never been called a complication before. I’ve certainly been one, but never been called out on it to my face.”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s exactly what this would be,” I admitted forlornly. “You’re probably right.”

  “Please don’t be upset. I don’t want to hurt you in any way. Besides, you need to focus on your recovery,” she pointed out, trying to sound upbeat. “Have you drawn anything in your sketchbook yet?” she asked as she reached over and picked it up.

  She opened it to the first page and began perusing my work, allowing herself a few seconds to appreciate each piece before flipping to the next image. Her eyes had a sheen of purpose and seemed to be darting around, analyzing every last detail of each composition. She continued to flip the pages, getting closer to the drawing that had my gut in a knot. My hands got sweaty and my heart sped up with nerves, but I didn’t stop her.

  When she got to the third or fourth drawing and realized what she was looking at—who she was looking at—it felt like the planet had stopped spinning. The expression on her face as she took in the sight of her portrait…I would have paid a lot of money to be able to snap a photograph of her in that moment. Her eyes were speaking a foreign language that was more beautiful than anything else I’d ever heard. I couldn’t wait to learn every single word in its vocabulary.

  Affected, imp
ressed, exposed—so many emotions flashed in her eyes, those beautiful crystal blues that kept jumping from the paper to my face, back and forth between the two. She stiffened, gripping the sides of the sketchbook so tightly that her knuckles were white, and then she slowly backed up until the edge of the chair met the backs of her legs. Not taking her eyes away from the drawing, she eased down and sat.

  Finally speaking after what seemed like several minutes of silence, she whispered, “It’s like looking at a photo.”

  I didn’t respond, allowing her space to express herself.

  “It looks so real, so detailed. How can you…?”

  “I’m an artist, Andie, and you were my muse.”

  You have been for a very long time.

  Chapter 19

  Andie

  This is what it must feel like for your throat to close up during an anaphylactic reaction.

  I could barely speak, could barely breathe really. My blood pounded and I felt the heat creeping into my face. The detail he’d put into the drawing of me was unlike anything I’d ever seen before—and how? Obviously the guy had talent, but how did he capture every single element of my face without looking at me? It was as if he had memorized me, each and every component that made me me. All the little peculiarities and nuanced parts were right there on the paper, shading my features like it was a three-dimensional image. It was all there.

  I’m his muse?

  Good grief. I could practically feel my heart sprouting arms with little hands on the ends to reach up and smack me in the face. It was the single most knee-weakening, swoon-worthy thing anyone had ever said to me. I was speechless—and also embarrassed. I wanted to be wanted and felt warm and fuzzy, but I was also uneasy with the attention.

  “I really should be going,” I murmured as I slowly closed the sketchbook.

  Smooth, Andie. Real smooth.

  “Andie, wait,” Vaughn begged. “Please don’t go yet. I didn’t mean to upset you. I thought you’d like it.” He spoke desperately, a worried look on his face.

  “I do like it. Please, don’t mistake me. I really like it, Vaughn. It’s probably the most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen.” One hundred percent. “I just don’t like the feelings it gives me.”