Page 38 of Double Standard

That’s good.

Right?

Except it doesn’t feel good. It feels like I’m being electrocuted, with eachwhat ifa jolt of pain that singes the nerves beneath my skin, hot and sharp. What if he’s paralyzed or has a brain injury? What if he can’t work again? What if he stays unconscious?

What if this is my fault?

After ignoring him for days, I decided to talk to him before the scene. I was awkward and noncommittal about meeting for dinner. I distracted him when he needed to be locked in, and now he’s paying the price. My throat tightens again.

Francesca’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Everybody, back to one. Colt and Ana, hair and makeup is waiting to touch you up. Thanks, all.”

I get halfway to the makeup chair before I turn around.It’s a conscious decision to honor a gravitational pull in the opposite direction, away from the cameras.

“Actually, I’m out,” I shout at the AD, at Colt, at my poor makeup artist who’s confused as hell, and to Francesca standing farther back, analyzing angles for the shot. “I’m going to the hospital. I’d say I’m sorry, but truthfully? I’m not. You can plan on me arriving at call time tomorrow, ready and eager to continue filming. But today, I’m done.”

I’m halfway to the street when I realize I’m still in full costume. Gauzy, scratchy muslin draped over my shoulders, dragging on the ground like a bridal train. At least I have shoes on.

A Hyundai pulls up, and I rip open the door and throw myself inside. “Hannah?”

“Close enough.”

The Uber app shows twenty-one minutes from here to Vanderbilt University Medical Center—the adult emergency room, not the children’s hospital from our event.

“Any chance you can speed?”

“Nah, can’t do that. But I can let you choose the music?”

“Whatever you want. Just go, please.”

It’s a five-star ride: The driver doesn’t say another word, and we make it to the hospital in twenty.

The fluorescent lights humming in Levi’s room are as startling as the antiseptic smell. At triage, when I barged inand demanded to see him, they told me he’d just gone to imaging. They probably shouldn’t have, but either the woman at the desk felt bad for me or someone pulled some strings because I was quickly shown to a room missing its hospital bed.

Now I’m sitting in a plastic chair that creaks every time I move and shivering against the air conditioning blowing from above. The rush to get here is gone, and with it, the channel for my nervous energy. It’s easy to take fear and propel it into action. It’s a lot harder to sit with it, in it, and wait. I tap my fingers on my thighs. I tap my shoes on the linoleum. I turn over in my head what I might say when he returns, and what he might look like.

What do you say to the person you thought you were falling in love with—and then broke up with—who then gets gravely injured?

And what if he’s not conscious to hear it?

The scrape of the glass door sliding open has me on my feet instantly. Two nurses begin to back Levi’s bed through the triage room door, and I realize he may not know I’m here. He may notwantme here.

“Move!” a man in starched blue scrubs shouts, gruff and commanding, as I scramble out of the way.

“Is he going to be OK?” I beg.

The nurse looks me up and down. “Wife or sister?” My gaze is trained on Levi, who is concerningly still, save for the brief twitch of a grimace.

“Oh, um, I’m a friend. Girlfriend? A coworker.”

“If you’re not family, I can’t provide updates. Who let you back here?”

“Please, I just need to know if he’ll be OK. That’s all.” My eyes rake over Levi’s face, cataloging the scratches, the bruise on his right cheek, the bump protruding over his eyebrow.

“Ana?” Levi’s attempt at my name comes out on a groan. It’s groggy, like he has a mouth full of marbles. “Ana?” This time, one eye lifts half-open. The stiff fear pulsing through my body starts to dissipate.

“That’s me, I’m Ana.” I look to the nurse. “See, he wants me here.” I make pleading eyes at Levi, and he gives me the smallest, slowest head nod as they place the blood pressure cuff back on his arm.

The nurse looks me over again and shrugs. I grab the chair and drag it to the edge of his bed, taking a seat for whatever tests he has—we have—ahead.