Heartstrings (6 page)

“And I’m not?” I challenge.

“I don’t think you are,” he says, “Though you’re putting up
a very good fight, I must say.”

“Why thanks,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, can I get
you anything?”

“A kiss?” he asks.

“No,” I say.

“A French kiss?” he asks.

“Why would—? Never mind. I’m just going to sit here and wait
until my shift is over. Let’s both just take a minute and be nice and quiet,
so—”

The door flies open, slamming hard against the wall. I
nearly jump out of my skin as I whip around to see what’s happened. My mouth
falls open as I spot a motley crew of unwashed hooligans streaming into the
hospital room. I recognize these people. They’re the ones I kicked out of the
way when Slade first got here. I should have known they’d be back.

“Looking good, Slade!” howls the short, somewhat jowly man I
spoke with in the waiting room while Slade was being admitted.

“You’re the manager, right?” I ask.

“That’s me,” he says, offering his hand to me, “Eddie
Bayonne, pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m Julia,” I say, shaking his proffered hand, “I’m Slade’s
night nurse.”

“He’s a lucky guy, to be taken care of by someone as lovely
as you,” Eddie grins, holding onto my hand for longer than is necessary.

“I’m rather good at my job, if that’s what you mean,” I say
coolly.

“Sure,” Eddie says with a wink. He crosses the room to Slade
and leans over the hospital bed. “So what’s the story, big guy?” he asks, “You
fixed yet or what?”

“Who knows?” Slade shrugs.

A man who looks like he could be Slade’s younger brother
steps up earnestly. “What about the show in two days?” he asks, “Are they going
to let you play? The fans are going to kill us if we miss another show.”

“This is Dodge,” Slade tells me, nodding toward the man,
“Our guitarist. And something of an alarmist, as it would happen.”

“Do you blame him?” says a thick, shaggy man beside me. I
recognize him from the waiting room as well. “We’ve all been worried about
you.”

“Joe, I’m fine,” Slade insists. “Tell them I’m fine, Julia.”

“He’s fine,” I confirm, “A royal pain in the ass, but he’s
going to be out of here soon I think.”

“Sounds like our boy,” says the lone woman of the group. I
can’t help but give her a long once-over. I assume that this is Annabelle, the
drummer of Flagrant Disregard. She’s got a good three inches on me, and
probably about ten fewer pounds. She looks like some kind of nymph—with long,
jet black hair and bright blue eyes. The features of her face are almost
impossibly delicate, and even the simple cotton dress she’s wearing looks
elegant on her.

I give my head a little shake, trying to dislodge the
judgmental thoughts from my mind. Why am I comparing myself to this woman I’ve
never met? It’s not like I have anything to prove to these people.

The four visitors take over the hospital room, perching on
chairs and equipment, wherever they land on first. They’re chattering up a
storm, filling Slade in on the buzz that’s been happening since his
hospitalization. Apparently, some fan managed to get a video of the whole
fight, and Slade’s brave defense of some young audience member against a few
big thugs. The video had gone viral overnight, 50,000 views in 10 hours, and
the few remaining tickets for the band’s American tour started selling out like
crazy.

“Now you know what to do if ticket sales ever start to slump,”
I say “Just get beat up and hospitalized, and you’ll be back on track in no
time.”

“I wasn’t beat up,” Slade says, “I was overwhelmed.”

“I thought we could celebrate our sold out tour a little
early,” Eddie says, grinning. He reaches into his coat pocket and produces a
small bottle of booze. The band mates cheer and clap excitedly, but I lunge
forward and snatch the bottle out of his hand. “Hey!” he cries, “That’s mine!”

“What is the matter with you people?” I demand, all but
wagging my finger at them, “Slade’s recovering from internal bleeding. The last
thing he needs is a shot.”

“Don’t be such a hard ass!” groans Joe, the thickset
bassist. “Just a little sip of this sweet Kentucky bourbon is just what the
doc…”

“No, that’s—hey!” I cry, as the guitarist Dodge pulls a
cigarette out of his pocket and lights it up. “What the hell do you think
you’re doing?”

“What, you’re telling me we can’t smoke in here, either?” he
asks.

“Of course that’s what I’m telling you!” I cry, snatching
the cigarette out of his hand and putting it out in the sink. “What planet do
you people come from? There’s concentrated oxygen in these rooms, and it’s
extremely flammable. Have you never been in a hospital before?”

“Not while I’ve been conscious,” Annabelle smiles, crossing
her thin arms.

“I think you guys had better go,” Slade says, “Julia’s
getting all steamed.”

“I’m not steamed,” I snap, “I am at a loss.”

“We’ll hit the road,” Eddie says, “We just wanted to tell
you the good news.”

“Get better as fast as you can,” Dodge says, “We don’t want
to cancel on the fans again if we don’t have to!”

“Don’t count on him being out by tomorrow,” I warn.

“Nothing wrong with hoping,” Annabelle says. She leans over
Slade and gives him a kiss on the forehead. A hot rush of jealousy courses
through my veins. I’m taken aback by the sensation, and for a moment I find it
hard to breathe. What the hell is the matter with me?

The band members file out of the room, waving to Slade over
their shoulders. I look around the room at the displaced equipment and tools,
marveling at how much room a mere four people can take up in the world. I guess
that’s what you get with musicians—larger than life personalities. Slade Hale
is pretty good proof of that. He looks up at me with his hands folded across
his chest. His eyes are gleaming with excitement.

“This’ll be our first sold out tour,” he tells me. I can’t
help but smile at how happy he sounds. Like a little boy who got everything he
wanted for his birthday.

“It’s kind of cute how stoked you are,” I tell him.

“Oh?” he says, “I’m cute to you, now?”

“Sure,” I saw, sitting down on the side of his bed, “You
could say that.”

“Well I’ll be damned if this isn’t the best day in recent
memory,” he says.

“You’re in the hospital,” I remind him.

“Still,” he says, reaching for my hand. Our fingers entwine
on the bed sheet, and again I’m overcome by the warm sensation that gushes
through me at our slightest contact. “Thanks for taking such good care of me,”
he says.

“It’s...nothing,” I say, my words staggered. “I mean...It’s my
job. To take care of people.”

“But still,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

“You...You haven’t been such a terrible patient, after all”
I say, taking my hand back lest it catch on fire or something.

“Yes I have,” he laughs.

“OK, maybe,” I admit. “But I’ve had worse. At my last job,
there was one woman who woke up in the middle of the night convinced that I was
her daughter and that the year was 1960. She nearly strangled me to death. She
got right up out of her bed and got me by the throat, screaming, ‘Elsie, you
little slut’ over and over again.”

“That’s insane,” Slade said, “Do you have to deal with that
kind of thing all the time?”

“Not all the time,” I say, “Not here, anyway. Now it’s
mostly just stab wounds and car accidents.”

“God,” he said quietly, “I can’t imagine doing what you do
every day.”

“It’s rewarding,” I say, “But I’m sure it’s not nearly as
exciting as your life.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says. “You deal with life and death on
a daily basis. You’re responsible for people’s very existence you know. What
you do is actually important.”

“Music is important too,” I tell him, “A lot of people would
say that a certain song or band saved their lives. Or at least changed them, in
some way.”

“Has that happened to you?” he asks.

“Sure,” I shrug, “I’d say so.”

“What was the album?” he asks.

“You’re just looking for a new way to make fun of me,” I
say, crossing my arms.

“No, I promise,” Slade says, sitting back up in bed. “I want
to know what album saved your life, once. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me
yours.”

“You go first,” I say.

“Fine,” Slade says, “Mine was Simon and Garfunkel’s concert
in Central Park. My mom had a recording of it that I listened to over and over
again while I was growing up.” I stare at him blankly, shocked into silence.
“What is it?” he asks, “Not what you were expecting?

“No...” I say, “No, it’s just...It was Simon and Garfunkel
for me too. The Central Park record.”

“You’re making that up,” he says, his eyes wide.

“No, I swear!” I say excitedly. “I used to listen to it in
my room as I was falling asleep.”

“What was your favorite song?” he asks suspiciously.

“
April Come She Will
,” I say, without hesitation.
“What about you?”

“
The Sound of Silence
,” he says, “Of course.”

We stare at each other in silence for a moment, neither us able
to fully believe in this coincidence. I suddenly remember the exact sensation
of listening to that album alone in my childhood bedroom. I remember being
fifteen years old, not having yet grown into my curves, sitting in the window
seat in a cotton nighty, and looking out over the treetops beyond my back yard.
I remember how profoundly sad, and yet how beautiful that music was. It had
made me want to settle down and explore the world, all at once. And now, over a
decade later, I hadn’t done either...

“It’s a damn good record,” Slade said quietly.

“Yeah,” I agree, smiling through the nostalgic ache that had
taken up residence in my heart, “Damn good.”

There’s a knock on the door, and I turn to see a graying,
stern nurse looking in at us. Rachel’s arrived to relieve me of my duties. I
stand up quickly and start toward the door to give her report.

“Hey,” Slade says. There’s an urgency in his voice I haven’t
heard before.

“What’s up?” I ask, looking back at him expectantly.

“...Nothing,” he smiles, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Tonight.
Whatever.”

“I’ll see you,” I say, smiling back.

My legs wobble ever-so-slightly beneath me as I make my way
out of the room past Rachel.

“No change I expect?” she asks rhetorically.

I glance back as she closes the door and approaches Slade,
fussing over the state of his sheets and pillows. That ache in my heart is
amplified as I walk away from the hospital room, out to where my car is waiting
to take me home. I realize, as I start the engine, that the sweet, sad longing
throbbing inside of me is something very much like lovesickness.

But that’s impossible
...I try to reason with myself.
I’ve only known Slade a couple of days. Surely, I can’t have feelings for him.
He’s a patient. Not to mention a complete asshole some of the time. Oh, and a
skeevy rock star, to boot. I must be confusing my physical attraction for
something deeper, that’s all. Those muscles of his would bamboozle even the
most unromantic person out there. And if I’m honest with myself, I’ve always
been something of a hopeless romantic. I try not to think about what all these
warring feelings mean and I drive home to catch a few well-earned hours of
sleep.

I stagger up my front stoop and let myself in. Gustav is
waiting for me by the door, just like he always does, his big yellow eyes peer
up at me inquisitively. I give him a good scratch behind the ears and head for
the kitchen, to fetch a can of food for him. We’ve gotten into quite the
regular routine, Gustav and I. I empty the food into his dish and slog up the stairs,
at this point my limbs are aching for a little bit of rest. Without bothering
to take off my scrubs, I flop down onto my mattress. I don’t even bother to get
under the covers. My eyes snap shut, and I pull my eye mask firmly down over my
face to keep the sun at bay.

As I lay there, halfway between waking and sleeping, I find
my thoughts drawn inevitably toward Slade Hale. I let my imagination supply me
with scenes of the two of us together, out in the real world. I imagine what
his home must look like, how he looks without his clothes on. I let myself
wonder what it would be like to run my hands along his firm chest, his well
muscled arms, and those washboard abs. What would it feel like to run my
fingers through his long, dark curls, look deeply into his endless eyes, and
press my lips to his? How amazing would it feel to reach down and wrap my hands
around his hard, bulging...

In what feels like the blink of an eye, it’s morning once
more. I scowl under my mask, annoyed at not being able to remember any of the
more illicit dreams my subconscious had cooked up the night before. For an
instant before waking, I had imagined that I was actually wrapped up in Slade’s
arms. But when I roll over, I see that I’m alone once more. As ever.

I crawl out of bed and prepare myself for work. Most days,
getting to the hospital seems like a chore, but today I’m excited to head in.
There was something about Slade’s demeanor the day before that had resonated
with me. Against my better judgment, I let myself hope that the sweet guy who
secretly liked Simon and Garfunkel was the true version of Slade.

I bid adieu to Gustav and all but skip out to my car.
Drumming my fingers impatiently on the dashboard, I find that I can’t wait to
be back at the hospital so that I can see Slade again. I’ll be on my best
behavior today and give this guy a chance.

Penny’s already at work when I breeze in. She looks up at me
and raises her eyebrows suspiciously. “Someone’s chipper this morning,” she
says, “Did you get laid last night or something?”

“Not exactly,” I say, “Just in a good mood.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts,” she says. “Would you do me
a favor and check in on the patient at the end of the hall? He took a bad spill
down the stairs of his office building, and he—”