“In a sexy nurse outfit, I’d hope.”
“I wouldn’t dream of taking care of you any other way.”
“Now I kind of want to get sick.”
“You can just fake it.” I turn my head to cough and reach for my water. Sam gets it for me and holds the straw to my lips so I can get a drink.
“Get some sleep,” he tells me, gently running his fingers through my hair.
“Wake me before you leave.”
“I will. I love you, Chloe.”“Hey, guys!” I say, holding up my phone, recording a quick Instagram story. Once Rebecca, my assistant, posted that I wasn’t able to do my live interview this morning, I’ve gotten an overwhelming amount of messages, emails, and comments on all of my social media channels wishing me well and asking for an update. I don’t have anything to update anyone on, since I’m still waiting on one myself.
It’s ten-thirty, and I’ve been impatiently waiting to hear if I’m going home or not. The doctor came in at seven-fucking-thirty AM, waking me up again after I’d just fallen asleep from the new nurse waking me to do her rounds. I’m tired, a little crabby, and just want to go home, take a nap in bed next to Sam, and then make the two-hour drive to Chicago…where I can go back to sleep. I am doing better, thankfully. My pulse and blood pressure stayed at normal rates throughout the night, and the monitors were able to be disconnected.
“I wanted to jump on really quick to say thank you so much for all your sweet, kind messages. As you can see, I’m still hospitalized. I’m exhausted but feeling better. I’m really hoping I’ll be out of here soon so I can get back to work and give you some Kellie and Marcus teasers.”
My voice is scratchy, and I’m so thankful for the filter I’m using. I post the video and then attempt to read through some of the important emails Rebecca flagged and forwarded to me. I have about half an hour until visiting hours begin and Sam will come back. He insisted he’d be able to come earlier, that most hospitals are pretty lenient as long as the visitors are polite and quiet. As much as I want him crowded in the little bed next to me again, I feel bad that he’ll be stuck here all day. He has to be bored out of his mind. I am, and I can hardly stay awake.
I reply to an email from my editor, telling her I’m going to be a few days behind sending her the next couple chapters since I’m currently out of commission. I skim over an email from Vanessa after that. The email isn’t addressed only to me, but to several of the best-selling author she represents, asking if we’d be interested at speaking at a national romance writers convention in the spring. I’ve sat in on panels and hosted Q&A sessions at book cons before, and they always make me so freaking nervous.
I’m relatively new compared to some authors who are twenty-plus years into their writing careers already. Imposter syndrome is real, and the way it impacts younger women both fascinates and depresses me. I have a hard time fitting in when I’m sitting on the stage next to a romance writing queen, with fifty or more books under her belt, all bestsellers.
Too tired to read the fine print about the convention, I lie back. With only the IV line in my arm, I still can’t twist onto my side like usual, but it’s so much more comfortable without the cuff around my arm and those itchy wires stuck to my chest. I’m close to falling asleep when someone from the lab comes in to take what hopefully is my last blood sample, giving me a clean bill of health—well, kind of—but good enough for me to get the hell out of here.
“I’m sorry I woke you up.” She puts on clean gloves. “People don’t like me enough when I come to poke them, but waking them up and then poking them makes me even less popular.”
I laugh. “I can see that. I’m not a fan of needles, but if I pretend you’re a vampire taking my blood it makes it much more tolerable.”
The phlebotomist gives me a weird look and goes on to take the blood sample. She closes the door behind her when she leaves to give me some peace and quiet and hopefully sleep. But my phone rings right after that. Grumbling, I force my eyes back open and see Charles’s name on my screen.
“Hey,” I answer.
“You’re in the fucking hospital and didn’t tell me. I had to find out from watching your Instagram stories.”
“I literally just posted it, you stalker.”
“Takes one to know one,” he shoots right back. “What’s the hell is wrong?”