11. Fallon

Fallon

I hate the smell of hospitals. That opinion has only strengthened since being here tonight.

Every single one of my roommates is sitting in the waiting room, giving the receptionist anxiety. Even Joey who was "on the brink of the perfect soufflé."

"You're always on the brink of the perfect soufflé," Ainsley had muttered, while Chloe rubbed his back in the car. I told them they didn't have to come, but nobody listened. The only roommates who stayed home were Reginald and Spunky. And Gerald, who was already in bed.

When we first got to the hospital to check her in, the receptionist had asked for her name and her social security number—both of which I didn't have. That led to an awkward explanation about the situation, to which the receptionist said they would just list her as Baby Stewart until I could get the paperwork in order.

"But, listen," she said, clearing her throat and looking up at me. "You have to get this in order, okay? The state really doesn't like us doing stuff like this—they'd prefer I call Social Services. I'm gonna hold off on that so you can keep your sister, but you have to file that paperwork, okay?"

I nodded and thanked her, trying to keep tears from my eyes.

After that, the baby had her examination, and Dr. Hernandez didn't look happy when she delivered the diagnosis.

I'm not a doctor, but I know anatomy and physiology. And I know that the term congenital diaphragmatic hernia instantly made my heart drop. It just kept dropping and dropping as Dr. Hernandez kept talking.

"It causes some of her gastrointestinal tract to move upwards, into the lung cavity area. If we had seen the birth mother, we could have diagnosed this during the pregnancy…"

While Dr. Hernandez was talking, I didn't know where to look. Staring at her felt like staring into the sun, the fluorescent lights above us washing her out and making her skin radioactive.

"The difficulty breathing is more than likely caused by this, but we won't know until we get in there," Dr. Hernandez had explained.

"Get in there?"

"Yes. She will need surgery."

I stared at her. Did she say that already? Did I miss it?

"Surgery," I'd said, numbly.

"To fix the problem. We'll use mechanical ventilation and repair the hole."

"Thank you, doctor," Chloe said, patting my arm and smiling at Dr. Hernandez, who was looking at me with concern. "I think we need a moment."

By the time Dr. Hernandez walked out of the room, I was hyperventilating.

"Surgery? Surgery ?" I'd gasped.

"Breathe."

"I don't have surgery money!" I'd said, getting out of my seat and pivoting, my hands covering my face for a moment. "I don't even have diaper money, or food money, and oh god I'm still gonna be paying on my own student loans when she's my age! And by then college will be a million dollars per year…"

I'd started pacing. Chloe stood up, putting her hands on my shoulders. "Go take a moment outside. I'll stay in here with the baby. Go, breathe, get your head on your shoulders, then come back."

Nodding, I'd turned and walked straight out of the room, in the opposite direction of the waiting room, and outside. The cool night air washed over me, and I sat down hard on a bench.

I'm still on the bench. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but my heart is racing, my phone pressed to my ear.

"Fallon?"

"Yeah," I say, closing my eyes and tipping my chin. Brett sounds different on the phone. Sleepy.

"Oh, god." I rub my face. "Did I wake you up?"

"No, no, not at all," he says, even though I can hear him sitting up and the familiar slide of clothes against fabric. Picturing him in bed does nothing to calm my racing heart.

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"Fallon," he repeats, his voice more serious than anything I've heard from him. And it—weirdly—makes my body feel a little more settled. "What's going on?"

"It's—" I'm made of sighs. "It's the baby."

My voice cracks on the last word, and I'm well-aware of how much I sound like a broken woman in a dramatic TV show. It's the baby . What is wrong with me?

"Where are you?" he asks.

"At the hospital, but—"

"UVM?"

"Yeah."

I can hear him moving around on the other end of the phone, hear the slight jingle of keys and the closing of a door.

"Brett, you don't have to—"

"I'm coming," he says, "I hate talking on the phone. I'd rather look at your face."

***

My roommates are enchanted by Brett. He arrives with an armload of sandwiches, even managing to bring a vegetarian one for Ainsley.

"Cool, dude," she says, accepting it, giving him the rare approving look.

"Always a vegetarian in the group," he chuckles, holding up a different sandwich. "Gluten-free?"

When nobody in our group speaks up, the receptionist slowly raises her hand, and Brett gives her the sandwich. He's leaving this hospital with a whole phone book tonight. When he's done, I pull him into the hallway.

"What's up?" he asks.

"I—"

Brett may hate talking on the phone, but I prefer it. This is much more difficult to do in person. He's looking down at me with this wide-open expression, like it doesn't matter what comes out of my mouth right now.

His hair is falling onto his forehead, his strong nose just the tiniest bit crooked in the middle. I fight hard not to look at the way he's leaning over me, one hand planted on the wall, or I might actually faint.

Now that we're out of the context of the PT room, I'm realizing something. Brett Ratcliffe is a big man. I'm not a short woman by any standards—I'm 5'8"—but he towers over me. If I had to guess, I'd say he's at least 6'4".

"You want to get married?" he asks when I've stood there for a moment with my mouth slightly open. His eyes are darting around my face. I realize that, if anyone walks past us, it's going to look like he's hitting on me. Like we're having a secret romantic rendezvous. But I don't know how to inch away from him without making it obvious.

And there's a part of me that doesn't want to move.

"I—well, yeah," I say, cheeks blazing. "But, listen. Before we do anything—like, sign paperwork, you have to contact the PT office and let them know you're not a patient anymore. I don't want to risk my job for this."

"Done, "he says, and then, "I bet this is exactly how you imagined it."

He's teasing, his eyes shining down on me. If I lifted onto my tiptoes, and tilted my chin up toward him, I could kiss him.

I push the thought away, baffled. "Imagined it?"

"You said you'd like to get married," he chuckles. "I bet this is how you imagined it happening, as a little girl."

"Getting married ?" someone says, and Brett and I turn at the same moment to see Cassidy standing in the hallway, squealing through her fingers.

Five minutes later, Brett and I are holding a mini press-conference with my roommates, informing them of our plan to commit fraud together.

"What's in this for you?" Joey asks, arms crossed as he stares Brett down.

Brett doesn't rise to the challenge, just gives Joey one of his loose grins. "I get to help Fallon. She fixed my leg. I figure that equals out to about one fake marriage in return."

Cassidy is disappointed I haven't had a secret lover this whole time, but she quickly rallies around the idea.

"It's such a trope !" she says. "We totally all have to go to the courthouse together."

"What's a trope?" Randall asks, voice flat. I haven't gotten a read on how he feels about the situation, but with his background, he doesn't really have any room to judge me for fraudulent behavior.

"Oh, wait," Brett says, stepping forward and putting a hand on my shoulder. He does it so casually, effortlessly, that my heart skips a beat at the intimacy there. I touch him all the time during our PT sessions, but in that setting, he's my patient. It's completely platonic.

But here, with him standing next to me, in a pair of jeans and a loose sports T-shirt, it's completely unprofessional. Inappropriate. My brain goes wild with the heat from his hand, imagining what it would feel like elsewhere on my body.

"I know this one," he continues, oblivious to my internal floundering. "My buddy's friend is a romance writer. A trope is like, one bed, or something."

"Holy shit, Fal," Cassidy says, stepping forward and wrapping her hands around Brett's bicep. "You have to keep him!"

"That wasn't even a good definition of a trope," Ainsley says, but nobody listens to her. With the exception of Joey and Ainsley, my roommates circle around Brett, asking him a million and one questions.

"An athlete?" Chloe says, raising an eyebrow after asking about his job. "In what world does being an athlete pay the bills? You're not expecting to get money from Fallon, are you?"

"My parents are rich," he says, pressing his lips together, "so…"

Everyone quiets down, staring at him. That explains how he can afford to water ski and mess around in amateur sports. Jealously flares through me, hot and shameful and wholly unexpected, but I push it away.

Tugging on Brett so Cassidy's hands fall away from him, I clear my throat and address everyone.

"The baby needs surgery ASAP," I remind them all, "which means we need to get married right away."