Page 25 of Maybe in Another Life

Ethan puts his water down and looks me right in the eye. “Listen, I went to that bar hoping to get you alone, hoping to talk to you, to gauge how you felt. I tried on ten different shirts to find the right one. I bought gum and kept it in my back pocket in case I had bad breath. I stood in front of the mirror and tried to get my hair to look like I didn’t do my hair. For you. You are the only one. I danced with Katherine because I was nervous talking to you. And because I want to be honest with you, I’ll admit that I don’t know what I would have done if you had turned me down on Saturday, but no matter what I would have done, it would have been because I thought you weren’t interested. If you’re interested, I’m interested. And only in you.”

“I’m interested,” I say. “I’m very interested.”

He smiles.

The cinnamon rolls arrive at the table. The smell of the spice and the sugar is... relaxing. I feel as if I am at home.

“Maybe all of this time,” I say to Ethan, “I’ve been looking for home and not realizing that home is where the cinnamon roll is.”

Ethan laughs. “I mean, if you’re going to go all over the country looking for where you belong, I could have told you years ago you belong in front of a cinnamon roll.”

I grab a knife and fork and make my incision, right into the deep heart of the swirl. I put the fork to my mouth. “This better be good,” I say before I finally taste it.

It is absolutely delicious. Wonderfully, indulgently, blissfully delicious. I put down my utensils and look up at the ceiling, savoring the moment.

He laughs at me.

“Would it surprise you if I finished this entire roll myself?” I ask.

“Not since you insisted on having your own,” he says. He takes a bite of his. I watch as he chews it casually, as if it’s a ham sandwich or something. He’ll indulge my sweet tooth, but he doesn’t share it.

“How about if I finish yours, too?” I ask.

“Yes, I would actually go so far as to say that would shock me.”

“Challenge accepted,” I say, except that none of the syllables comes out clearly. There is too much dough in my mouth. I accidentally spit cinnamon on him.

Ethan moves his hand to his cheek to wipe it away. On a scale of one to ten, I’m about a six for embarrassment. I think my cheeks turn red. I swallow.

“Sorry,” I say. “Not very ladylike.”

“Kinda gross,” he says, teasing me.

I shake my head. “How about that? If I make a habit of spitting cinnamon roll chunks on you, is that a deal breaker?”

Ethan looks down at the table and shakes his head. “Just get over it, OK? You and me. It’s happening. Stop trying to find cracks in it.” He puts down his knife and fork. “Maybe there are no cracks in this. Can you handle that?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I can handle that.”

I can, right? I can handle that.

I’ve noticed that in TV shows, visiting hours are only certain set times. “Sorry, sir, visiting hours are over” and that sort of thing. Maybe this is true in the rest of the hospital, but here on whatever floor I’m on, no one seems to care. My parents and Sarah were here until nine. They only left because I insisted they go back to their hotel. My nurse, Deanna, was in and out of here all day and never said anything to them about leaving.

Gabby showed up about two hours ago. She insisted on setting up camp on the poor excuse for a sofa in here. I told her that she didn’t have to stay the night with me, that I’d be OK on my own, but she refused. She said she’d already told Mark she was sleeping here. Then she handed me the bouquet he sent with her. She put it on the counter and gave me the card. And then she made a bed for herself and talked to me as she closed her eyes.

She fell asleep about a half hour ago. She’s been snoring for at least twenty minutes. I, myself, would love to fall asleep, but I’m too wired, too restless. I haven’t moved or stood up since I was standing in front of LACMA four days ago. I want to get up and move around. I want to move my legs.

But I can’t. I can barely lift my arms above my head. I turn on a small light by my bed and open up one of Sarah’s magazines. I flip through the pages. Bright photos of women in absurd outfits in weird places. One of the photo shoots looks as if it took place in Siberia with women wearing polka-dot bikinis. Apparently, polka dots are in. At least in Europe.

I throw the magazine to the side and turn the TV back on, the volume low. No surprise to find thatLaw & Orderis on. I have yet to find a time when it isn’t.

I hear the show’s familiarbuh-bumpjust as a male nurse walks into my room.

He’s tall and strong. Dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven. His scrubs are deep blue, his skin a deep tan. He has on a white T-shirt underneath.

It only now occurs to me that Deanna probably isn’t working twenty-four hours a day. This guy must be the night nurse.

“Oh,” he says, whispering. “I didn’t realize you had company.”

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