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And yet, the unsettling thing isn’t that I’ve agreed to this outrageous scheme. No, what truly disorients me is the whispering, traitorous voice insisting that, perhaps, Xavier Johnson isn’t the two-dimensional character I’d originally thought.
You’re starstruck, Emma. That’s all this is. You’ve been caught in the flashbulbs of his fame, and it’s blinding you.
My internal monologue turns into a pep talk as I descend into the subway. This act—this ruse—is for Jeff. For his future. It’s not about me or the irrational pull I feel toward Xavier. I can be in his company without falling under his spell. I’m not that naive.
Once I’m safely ensconced in my apartment, wrapped in the comfort of sweatpants and a worn-in T-shirt, I grab my phone. Scrolling through my contacts, I find Xavier’s number—now saved, a stark reminder of the new reality I’ve voluntarily entered. My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I shoot off a text, trying to distill all the chaotic emotions of the night into a few simple words.
“Looking forward to our ‘public debut.’ Strictly business, of course.”
Seconds stretch into minutes. Just when I’m convinced he’s already forgotten about our deal, my phone vibrates.
“Strictly business it is. But business doesn’t have to be boring, Emma.”
The screen goes dark, but his words hang in the air, their insinuations lingering like a half-remembered dream. My fingers grip the phone a little tighter, and I feel the edges of it digging into my palm, as if grounding me to the complex reality I’ve just committed to.
And as I set my phone back on the table, a thought nudges at the periphery of my consciousness—a thought I immediately try to suppress but can’t.
What if this “strictly business” arrangement turns out to be anything but?
* * *
The sterile scent—mingled with a dash of antiseptic and rubber gloves—welcomes me as I push through the automatic glass doors. The hospital is an eerie space of order, where controlled chaos thrives behind the closed doors of exam rooms and surgery suites. I weave my way through the labyrinth of corridors, my sneakers squeaking lightly against the waxed floors, until I reach my dad’s room.
I pause, hand hovering over the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself for the world on the other side. It’s not the smell of medicine, nor the drab beige walls that I’m afraid of. It’s the myriad of questions hanging like an invisible cloud, each unanswered, each capable of raining down a storm of discomfort over our heads.
I swing the door open and find my father propped up against a mountain of off-white pillows. The sunlight slants through the blinds, casting pinstripes across his waning features. Despite the frailness, the inevitable toll of being in a hospital, his eyes light up when he sees me.
“There’s my beautiful girl.”
The way he says it, with that admiring lilt, evokes a torrent of memories—Saturday mornings in pajamas, the excitement of school dances, and those mellow evenings of cooking together. His words, always a salve, smooth over the sharp corners of my worries.
“Hey, Dad.” My voice is a careful balance of cheerfulness and sincerity as I lean down to kiss his forehead. The skin there feels more tender than I remember, as if it has grown thin from carrying the weight of his worries. I pull the visitor’s chair closer to his bed, the metal legs screeching softly against the linoleum floor, and sit.
“So,” I start, keeping my voice light, “what did the white coats say today? Are they still hoarding all the good pudding from you?”
He chuckles, a sound that seems to momentarily chase away the hospital’s cold ambiance. “You wouldn’t believe it. Dr. Stevens said they might let me out by the end of the week, as long as I promise not to do any square dancing or bungee jumping.”
“Ah, bungee jumping. Always knew that was a secret passion of yours.”
He winks. “One of many.”
A quiet laugh escapes me, and for a brief moment, the hospital room feels a little less oppressive.
I stand up and sling my purse over my shoulder, but just as I’m about to declare my exit, my father’s hand reaches out to envelop mine. It’s a strong hand, one that’s flipped pancakes and thrown baseballs, but now it trembles ever so slightly.
“Listen, Emma,” he says, and the jovial tone is gone, replaced by a weightiness that roots me to the spot. “You’re carrying a lot, looking out for Jeff and all.”
I open my mouth to deflect, to make light of it—my go-to defense mechanism—but he silences me with a look. It’s the same look he used to give me before diving into heart-to-hearts during my tumultuous teenage years. A look that says, This is important, pay attention.
“I know you’re doing the best you can, honey, but it’s okay to ask for help. You’ve got this habit of being a one-woman army.”
My eyes sting a little, and I feel the thickening lump in my throat. Dad’s reading me like one of his beloved classic novels, each sentence tinged with underlying themes and foreshadowing. I squeeze his hand back, making a promise without words. “I’ll try to remember that it’s not a weakness to lean on others.”
His smile blooms softly, a subtle work of art. “Atta girl.”
For a fleeting second, the room feels as though it’s suspended in a different time, one where he’s not in a hospital bed and I’m not burdened with newfound adult responsibilities.
“Don’t be too quick to judge Jeff,” he continues, pulling me back into the moment. “He’s like a photograph still in the darkroom, you know? Needs the right amount of time and light to come into focus.”
