Page 26 of The Voice We Find

“Still,” she says with a dreamy sigh. “That sounds more romantic than the last date I was on.”

“Let me assure you, this is no date.” I laugh. “August is connected to a drip line and is wearing an open-backed hospital gown.”

She does a little hop on the sofa and squeals. “Giiiirrrl, did you peek?”

“Oh my gosh, Dana. Stop.” I hit the volume button on the side of the phone until her voice is nearly muted. “Andno, I did not.” At least, I didn’t try to. She’s still laughing. “Okay, okay, I should probably jump off and bring him back his water cup. But I’m sorry this wasn’t what either of us planned tonight. You forgive me?”

She gives me her best contemplative face. “Send me a pic of him in that gown and I’ll forgive you.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t hold your breath on that. I’ll text you later. Love you.”

My finger hovers over the red disconnect icon when she nods and says, “You’re a super good friend, Soph. He’s lucky to have you.”

Her words whittle their way from my ears to my heart. And even though I know there is nothing intimate going on between August and me, the slight flutter in my chest is as unexpected as it is curious. I stare down at the darkened phone in my left hand and then to the hospital cup cradled in the nook of my right arm and resolve to help August secure a ride home from the hospital as soon as

possible.

Once I’m in front of the curtain blocking me from August’s room, I pull on a pleasant expression and clear my throat. “Knock, knock.”

“Come in,” he replies in an almost whimsical sounding voice I don’t recognize.

When I enter the familiar space again, Dr. Rock is with him, standing at the computer.

She twists around, her expression kind and open. “Oh good, I was hoping I’d get a word with you. It’s Sophie, isn’t it?”

I nod and then slowly look at the man lounging on his hospital bed as if reclined on a beach chair at some exotic resort and not in a hectic emergency room. Why on earth is he grinning like that? And what exactly has he told her about me? Then again, what does he really even know about me? That I own a cat he despises? That I can speak Woodland Creature on demand? Or perhaps the most curious truth of the day, that we’ve been coworkers for all of seven hours.

“I just told August that he owes you a steak dinner.” She leans in my direction and stage whispers, “Or at the least something expensive that requires a reservation and a fancy dress.”

This clears nothing up.

But then Mr. Relaxation himself chimes in. “Doc says you saved my life.”

“Oh, no.” I balk and shake my head. “All I did was—”

“Convince him to come in when he’d convinced himself he’d be fine to wait it out at home with a couple of Tylenols?” Dr. Rock concludes. “Cellulitis is a serious infection, and if left unattended, it can easily turn septic. He’s lucky he has someone like you in his life.”

Hearing a similar sentiment from Dana was one thing, but hearing it from a doctor on August’s behalf is more than a little awkward. Despite what the visitor sticker on my shirt declares, I’m not actually a part of his life. It only takes a second for me to dig out the improv skills and apply humor. “Honestly”—I lift my chin in August’s direction—“he’s just lucky he came willingly.”

His laugh is as uninhibited as it is contagious, and even Dr. Rock chuckles at the two of us. I study the drip line in August’s arm, and it’s only then that I realize there are two bags of fluid being pumped into him through his IV. One is the antibiotics he needs; the other must be whatever is making him smile as if his usual frown is a farfetched concept.

“Somehow I doubt that an unconscious male is the strangest cargo that SUV has transported,” he says. “It looks like hotel art on wheels.”

“I wish I could say it’s the drugs talking,” I tell the doctor, “but he isn’t wrong. My brother designed the advertisement wrap so...” I shrug like,What more can I say?

“You two are officially my favorite people on this floor today.” Dr. Rock beams at us both before dropping back into her professional voice. “I sent in the prescription for oral antibiotics to your pharmacy, August.” She then points to the fuller of the two IV bags. “As soon as your antibiotic drip is finished, Bruce will be back in to explain the protocol for your at-home wound care.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“August will need to have his wound cleaned and bandaged at least once a day, preferably twice.” Once again, she looks at me as if my connection to her patient is something it’s not. “Don’t worry, Bruce can show you all the tricks. But considering you watched the whole procedure earlier, I’m guessing you’re not the squeamish type.” She pats August on the leg. “Once again, you should consider yourself lucky. Not everybody has someone at home who is capable or willing to assist.”

Thankfully, when the inevitable awkward pause at her assumption crash lands in the center of the exam room, August is with it enough to come to the rescue.

“What’s the alternative?” he asks in a curious tone.

“That would depend on your insurance. But likely a daily visit to your local urgent care or possibly home health care.”

“Wow,” August says under his breath. “That would be unfortunate.”

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