Page 83 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

“I know, but I thought maybe they would let me in early to speak to the doctor.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Ryan is already throwing the covers off, revealing the strain of his morning wood against his boxer briefs. He must be aware of it as well, because he stays seated at the edge of the bed and cleverly maneuvers to pull on his jeans while blocking the full sight of it.

“No, really it’s okay. You’ve already done so much,” I object. “You should stay here…sleep in…take advantage of the continental breakfast.”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head as he stands. “I’m already awake, and I can grab breakfast at the hospital cafeteria later.”

Our eyes meet and we hold each other’s gaze from across the room. Ryan stands still, seemingly braced for whatever retort he thinks I’ll offer. But nothing comes. If we’re being honest, I’m relieved that he wants to go with me this morning. I have no right to want him there as much as I do, but he’s the one who showed me that I don’t always have to do everything alone. Except that I guess I sort of do have to do everything alone now. And for that reason, I’m going to bask in the wonderful warmth of his company one more time before we get back to Gatlinburg and start ignoring each other again.

The muscles in Ryan’s forearm twitch as he notches his belt in place and reaches for his wallet on the nightstand. I sink to a new level of misery as I contemplate the fact that those arms are nothing but a memory to me now. They’ll never wrap around me or hold me as we sleep. I’ll never wrap my fingers around his strained muscles as he braces his weight on top of me while I fall apart beneath him.

As if he’s reading my mind, a flash of curiosity passes over his features when Ryan looks up at me.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

I answer with a nod and hand the car keys over to him.

The visitors’ kiosk is empty when we arrive at the hospital. It’s probably not a good sign. We’re so far off from visiting hours that they haven’t even considered that they need a volunteer stationed up front to turn people away. Luckily, I know where I’m going now.

Without a word, Ryan follows me back through the wide hallway until we reach the heavy doors of the ICU. They’re locked, of course, leaving us no choice but to pick up the phone receiver and talk to the nurses’ station.

It rings several times. When a woman finally picks up, her greeting is abrupt and hurried.

“Hi, I’m here to see my mother, Rosemary Stephens,” I say, my voice both apologetic and hopeful.

“Visiting hours start at nine o’clock ma’am.”

“I know, and I’m sorry to show up so early. The night nurse told me that I might be able to speak with the doctor after he makes his morning rounds today.”

The nurse sighs into the phone. “I can ask the doctor to come talk to you once he’s done in here, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll have time. He has a lot of patients to see today.”

“That’s fine, I can wait.”

“Alright, there’s a waiting area around the corner to your left. You can wait there for him.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I say before returning the receiver to the cradle.

Ryan and I walk down the hall to find a small, empty waiting room. The small television set hoisted up in one corner is dark, and a pile of ratty magazines occupies one of the dozen or so chairs lining the walls. Ryan waits for me to choose a chair and sits beside me.

I pick at the hem of my tank top, where I discover a loose thread and end up unraveling a three-inch section. I’m dressed like a crazy person. Light blue tank top, oversized gray cardigan sweater, and a pair of leggings with cats all over them. I don’t even remember packing the leggings, but it’s a good thing I did. The dress I packed was a little too tight when I tried to shimmy into it this morning, thanks to the ice cream that has been ever-present in my freezer since my breakup with Ryan.

Beside me, Ryan looks like he’s taken the opposite approach to getting over our breakup. He’s leaner with bulkier muscles than he used to have. It’s a subtle difference, but one that I can’t seem to stop noticing.

I wonder how else our approach to breaking up differs. Is Ryan spending Friday nights at the bar? Is he flirting with women? Going home with them at the end of the night? A wave of nausea jolts through me as I contemplate all the women who would gladly help ease Ryan Ehler’s broken heart. All the ways they would offer to help him forget. It’s not something that I normally allow myself to think about, but right now the alternative is thinking about my mom lying in a hospital bed down the hall. It’s not exactly a welcomed distraction from my mom’s condition, but it’s the only one I seem to be able to muster.

“I’m going to grab us some coffee from the cafeteria,” Ryan tells me. His fingers wrap around my knee with the briefest squeeze before he stands up. “Want anything else?”

I shake my head and try my best to offer an appreciative smile.

Ryan returns a few minutes later with two cups of coffee. He fiddles with the television for a minute, finding a local news station before sitting down next to me again. The volume of the television is just loud enough to drown out the ticking clock on the opposite wall. Instead of ignoring it though, I keep glancing over. Usually, only a minute or two has passed.

I adjust endlessly in my chair. Crossing and uncrossing my legs. Sitting up straight and then sliding down to prop my head against the wall. Ryan sits still, sipping his coffee and watching the news program with vague interest.

An hour later, we’re still alone in the waiting room. Every once in a while, someone pops their head in as if they’re looking for someone. But never for us, apparently.

“Want some more coffee?” Ryan yawns beside me.

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