I STAY WITH Drew until the hospital staff kicks me out. And I return in the morning to stay with him all over again. We don’t say much. I sit in the big armchair that I’ve pulled up next to his bed. Sometimes I hold his hand. Sometimes he just sits and plays with my fingers as he stares out the window with a pensive expression. I read Emerson to him, slow and low and just for his ears. When he grows still and silent, I stop.
“More.” His voice is rusty and soft, and his hand grasps mine in a warm and engulfing hold.
I read until he falls asleep. But I don’t leave him. I can’t. Being close like this highlights how empty I’ve felt without him. I know this man on so many tiny levels. In ways I hadn’t realized, in the cadence of his breath, the scent of his skin, how he always makes a small sound in his throat when he shifts position in bed. Little pieces of information that make Drew wholly and uniquely him.
His hospital room quickly takes to resembling a florist shop. Seemingly endless streams of “Get Well” bouquets are brought in by beaming nurses. None of which makes Drew even crack a smile. When a nurse maneuvers in a massive football-shaped balloon, flower combo, he snaps.
“Take it away.” His hand waves in annoyance. “Take them all.” He looks at the shocked nurse, and his expression becomes pained. “Please, just give them to people who need some joy. There’s got to be plenty of candidates in this place.”
The nurse, who is an obvious fan, smiles at Drew as if he’s a god. “Well, of course there are. Aren’t you sweet to suggest that?”
Only I can hear his muttered, “More like sick of the freaking smell,” and I fight down a smile of my own.
“If any more come, can you do the same?” is all he asks.
The nurse agrees, but when she picks up the vase nearest Drew, he stops her with a quick, “Wait.” The bed squeaks under him as he leans over and plucks a small, yellow rosebud from the vase. He breaks the stem off, leaving only about three inches, and then, without ceremony, tucks the rose into the meat of my high ponytail. I blush, and the nurse beams again, but Drew merely flops back onto his pillows, crossing his arms over his broad chest and glares at the TV—which isn’t even on.
“He’s a natural charmer, your man,” says the nurse as if she’s a proud mama.
“Oh, yes,” I murmur, grinning at Drew, who is blushing now. “Especially when he’s grouchy.”
“Humph…” Drew’s brows knit tighter together. “Rather look at you, anyway.”
Sighing happily, the nurse bustles out, not seeing Drew’s mouth twitching at the corners. But I do, and once she’s gone, I lean in and kiss his stubble-covered cheek. “Thanks,” I whisper. “I was trying not to sneeze with all of those flowers.” I know exactly why he hates the sight of them, but I’m happy to pretend I was the one who didn’t want them.
Drew’s head tilts back as he closes his eyes. “I just want to get out of here.”
“I know.” Gently, I run my fingers up and down his forearm. I love the tight, satin texture of his skin and could touch him indefinitely. But a shadow from the window in the door catches my attention. “Looks like the guys are here to see you.”
Drew lurches up, his eyes wild. “Oh, shit no.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“Get rid of them, Anna.” He looks positively panicked.
“Drew, I’m not going to tell them to go. They must be worried about you.”
He grabs my hand. “I don’t want them to see me like this.” His lids lower, his gaze skating away. “I don’t want to hear about the game. Or face them. Fuck!”
Because Gray is already heading in with what looks like the entire team. Evading Drew’s hand, I get up and lean over him. “These guys love you. And you love them. Don’t forget that.” I kiss him on the cheek and pretend I don’t see him glaring at me like I’m a traitor as I walk out the door.