Page 4 of Parallel

I’m too tired for this, but also too tired to argue. I follow Jeff into the hospital, petulant as a teenager. It seems like an even worse idea once we’re inside. While Georgetown the city is a haven of the wealthy and privileged, Georgetown hospital is not. I walk in expecting private school kids with lacrosse injuries or socialites with adverse reactions to Botox but find chaos instead: police restraining a screaming woman just inside the doors, a guy with an abdominal wound dripping blood off to the right.

Jeff shields me through all of it, placing his broad shoulders between me and the blood and the screaming woman, with no concern for himself. If my father is somewhere watching us right now, he’s smiling. He was so certain Jeff would always keep me safe, and he was right.

Eventually, my name is called, and we are led back to a room with cinderblock walls and a poster that asks me to describe where my pain rests on a scale between the smiley-face emoji and the crying one. A resident appears moments later to complete an exam of my reflexes, orientation, and medical history. No, this has never happened before. No, I don’t use drugs. Yes, I drink socially, but not much. And then the attending comes in and does it all over again.

I’m not in the mood to go through it all twice. And it’s exhausting, telling half-truths, keeping so many things to myself. “I just fell,” I tell her. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Jeff frowns at me. “She didn’t recognize me or her mother when she woke. She had no idea where we were and was asking for someone named Nick.” There is a hint, just a hint, of outrage when he says the name. He’s jealous, I realize at last. That’s why this bothers him. He probably thinks Nick is some ex of mine I’ve never mentioned, and I could attempt to reassure him on that point, but the truth is almost worse. If he could picture what I do—Nick looming over me with that look, the one that even now makes me want certain things more than I’ve ever wanted them before—I doubt he’d be relieved. Especially since it all seemed to be happening recently, during the time I’ve been with Jeff.

“So, you had a little memory loss and recovered quickly?” the doctor asks.

I try to smile, the way a perfectly normal person who isn’t fantasizing about a stranger might. “Yeah, it took a minute and then I was fine. Just a headache, and that’s gone now too. I skipped breakfast and wasn’t feeling great anyway.”

“We’ll get an MRI just to be sure,” she says.

My shoulders tense. She’s probably checking for concussions and it will come to nothing…but I don’t love the idea of anyone looking too closely at what’s in my head. “I’d really rather not. Honestly, I don’t think it was a big deal.”

“It’s best to be on the safe side,” she counters. “Are you sore anywhere?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“Let me check your lymph nodes.” She moves in front of me and places her hands just beneath my jaw. Her palm hits the base of my neck and I wince. “Sorry,” she says. “I pressed on your, uh—” She trails off.

“My what?”

Her smile is so awkward it’s physically painful. “You’ve got a, um, bruise…on your neck.” I struggle to understand why, exactly, she’s being so weird—until I realize that by bruise she actually means hickey.

“What?” I scoff. “No.”

“Look in the mirror,” she says, with another awkward smile. I glance at my reflection and there, glaring back at me, is a small purplish-red mark. My pulse rises as Jeff steps forward to take a closer look. His face falls. Whatever is there, we both know he’s not responsible for it. He’s never given me a hickey in my life, and he’s been out of town for most of the past week.

I put these things together and a quiet kind of fear creeps in, spreads icy fingers inside my chest.

Because all that comes to mind is the memory of Nick’s mouth on my neck.

When my exam is complete, a nurse directs us upstairs, to neurology. Jeff’s silence on the way is unnerving. He hasn’t said a word since he saw the bruise. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. “You know it’s not a hickey.”

“All I know,” he says without inflection, “is that I didn’t give it to you.”

I groan quietly under my breath. Despite the dream about Nick, there’s no way it’s actually a hickey. And I can’t believe he’d even question it. “You’ve been with me all day long. And last night too. If I really had a bruise on my neck the entire time, don’t you think you’d have noticed it by now? I probably just hit a rock or something when I fell today.”

The doors open and his hand goes to the small of my back as we step out. Even as upset as he is, he still wants to take care of me, guide me, shield me.

I guess this is what my father saw in him, long before I did. I was only 20 when I came back home after my father’s diagnosis, and to my mind, Jeff was already an adult—out of college, back in Rocton working as an assistant football coach. Toward the end of his life, my father’s hints turned into pleas. Jeff will keep you safe, he would whisper, squeezing my hand, the morphine making his words nearly unintelligible. Marry him and you’ll always be safe. I nodded only to comfort him, not really meaning it. But the way Jeff took care of me and my mom after my father passed made an impression on me, and once he really set his mind to winning me over, it was impossible not to fall in love with him. So I guess my dad was right all along.

“We’re looking for imaging,” Jeff says to a nurse passing by.

She doesn’t even look up from her phone. “Sixth floor.”

We glance at each other and return to the elevator, facing forward. His hand remains on my back. I think there’s probably nothing I could do to him, really, that he wouldn’t forgive—not that I’ve actually done anything that requires forgiveness. And that loyalty of his is one of many things I love. My friends come to me with story after story of men behaving badly, and it just confirms what I already know: I got one of the good ones.

He shifts beside me. “Look, put yourself in my shoes. You wake up asking for another guy. You don’t even recognize me. And it turns out you’ve got this hickey on your neck I didn’t give you…”

“You know better,” I reply. “Whatever the explanation is, you should know me well enough to realize I would never cheat, and if you don’t, then you shouldn’t be marrying me.”

The elevator doors open. When we get on, I push the button for the first floor.

“What about the MRI?” he asks.