Between the Lines
She got up and left the table to a chorus of dings, and Vic did nothing but laugh and call after her, “Come on, baby—Jesus, it’s just a joke!”
She found out a week after they broke up that he’d been sleeping with a sophomore from his art class for at least a month, maybe longer. He’d been telling Emily that the girl had a crush on him but he was keeping it strictly platonic.
“Since when is platonic synonymous with screwing around?” she asked him during their last fight, which occurred right after she found out.
“Newsflash, Emily—you and me are broken up, so technically, you have no jurisdiction over me anymore. But let me give you a parting tip—it’s a stretch to call it screwing around on your girlfriend when she won’t screw around with you in the first place.”
She and I heaped curses on Vic’s big stupid head for this preposterous excuse, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t seep into my brain just enough for Reid’s pushing to make me wonder if there was any legitimacy to it.
I’m tired of Reid’s moping. I want to let him know he can’t manipulate me, but I also want to see it coming if he’s going to use the Vic justification. Unsure exactly what I intend to say but determined to say it, I turn back and knock on his door. A minute later he hasn’t answered, but just as I start to turn away, the door opens.
The last thing I expect to see is Reid bowed over, an arm across his abdomen. His usually perfect hair is plastered to his forehead and he looks pale.
“Reid? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know. I don’t feel so hot, Emma. I’ve been sleeping since I got back.”
“Do you need me to get someone? A doctor?”
He blinks slowly. “I’m just going to go back to bed.”
“Why don’t I bring you something—soup maybe—from the café? I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Give me your room key, so you won’t have to get up again.”
He backs into the room, pointing to the dresser. “It’s on my wallet.” As I grab the room key, he collapses onto the bed with a moan.
“Reid, are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” He shakes his head, and I’m unsure what to do except go get him something that I’m pretty sure he isn’t going to eat.
By the time I return, he’s gone from pale to flushed. I’ve brought chicken noodle soup and Sprite, but he doesn’t take more than a sip of either. His knees are drawn up, both hands on his stomach, eyes closed. Placing my hand on his forehead, I know something is really wrong because he’s burning up. “Are you nauseous?”
“I don’t know,” he answers after a minute. “You should probably leave. I don’t know if I’m contagious. Tell Richter I might not feel like filming tomorrow.”
“Sure.” He’s probably right, the best thing for me to do is leave, but I can’t abandon him like that.
My phone buzzes from my bag—a text from Graham.
Graham: Hey, you coming? We’re about to grab some taxis.
Me: I’m in reid’s room. I think he’s sick.
Graham: Sick how?
Me: I don’t know. Fever. He’s clutching his stomach but no throwing up…yet.
Graham: Be up in a minute.
Me: K, thx
I wet a washcloth under the cold tap, pull Reid’s damp hair off of his forehead, and press the cloth to his head. He sighs but never opens his eyes.
Graham’s knock is soft. I open the door to admit him, saying, “I hope I’m not exposing you to something.”
“S’okay.” He takes a disposable thermometer from a small paper bag and smiles. “Gift shop.” Reid barely registers him coming into the room.
A few minutes later, I don’t feel so reactionary. “One hundred three,” Graham says. “We need to get a doctor up here.”
I call the PA, who calls Reid’s personal assistant for the film, Andrew, who locates a doctor willing to make hotel calls. Andrew is one of dozens of usually invisible film crew personnel. His celebrity assistant skills, until tonight, were primarily utilized for caramel macchiato runs and dry cleaning supervision. Tonight, he’s in Reid’s room, pacing back and forth in the sitting area, calling Reid’s parents, manager and agent. Graham calls room service and orders sandwiches, charged to his room. When I try to object, he tells me I have to eat.
“Oh—you were supposed to go to dinner with everyone!” I say.
He shakes his head. “It’s no problem. I told them to go ahead.”
When the doctor arrives, Andrew, Graham and I are banished to the hallway while she examines Reid. There’s one anguished cry from the room, freezing Andrew and me in place, wide-eyed. Graham takes my shoulders and stares into my eyes. “He’s going to be fine.”
The doctor opens the door to let us back into the room. “We need to do a scan to check for appendicitis.” She’s already called the front desk to get an ambulance to the hotel. “Does he have family nearby?” she asks, and Andrew starts dialing like a man possessed.
Graham and I follow the ambulance in a taxi. He holds my hand all the way there, and in the waiting room, where we spend the evening. “He’s going to be fine,” he repeats, after we’re told Reid is going into surgery; the doctor was correct in her initial diagnosis. “What if you hadn’t checked on him, or if you’d listened when he tried to just go back to sleep?”
Andrew talks and texts non-stop, pacing by the windows and occasionally outside, where I suspect he’s looking for somewhere to light up. Hospitals don’t exactly cater to smokers. I lean my head on Graham’s shoulder, thankful he showed up with a thermometer, that he knew what to do. My eyes drift closed, and I realize I’ve been asleep when I sit up and my neck feels stiff. He shifts, his hand massaging the tight muscles, pressing me back to his chest, his heartbeat in my ear.