Having an episode is a traumatic thing for Danna, and to a lesser degree (or at least a different one), for me as well.

As I sit here in Danna’s hospital room in the chair next to her bed, I think about the odd ways in which people deal with things. Some people get pissed off, some people get more determined, some people crawl into a bottle, and some people just shut down completely. Danna and me, though? We’re dealing with this situation by going out of our way not to even bring it up.

In the half hour it’s been since the doctors let me in here to see her, we haven’t once talked about why we’re having our conversation in a hospital room. She probably doesn’t have long before the fatigue wipes her out for who knows how long. Why waste what time we have by only talking about why we’re in the room.

“By the way,” Danna says, “you got a new message from your secret admirer.”

“Did I?” I ask. “I like that you’re calling her my secret admirer now. It sounds a lot better than crazy-stalker-fuckhead.”

“I’m sure she’s just lonely,” Danna says dismissively. “Anyway, you remember the flowers in different stages of development that she set out on the sidewalk last time, right?”

“Of course,” I answer.

“Yeah, so this time, she wrote you a love note that stretches along the sidewalk all the way around our block,” Danna says. “She used big letters, so I managed to get it written down. It should be in my purse somewhere—did they grab my purse?” she asks. “Did you check?”

“It’s American healthcare,” I tell her. “Do you really think they’d let you in here without taking a thorough look through your pockets and purses for loose change?”

“You know,” she says, “if you’ve got my purse or you know where it is, you can really just tell me. If not, I’m sure if we flipped to the right news station, we’d get an aerial view of the whole scene.”

“I really don’t care that much about what the poem said,” I tell Danna, and before I can continue, her head has jerked toward me and she’s giving me a glare, as if sensing that I’m about to ask her about what happened today. “We’ve got to talk about it at some point,” I tell her.

“We really don’t,” she says. “I fell and broke my leg. I’m probably going to need to stay off my feet for a while and get a lot of rest, but I’m going to be fine. I’m not dying or anything,” she says. “How’d it go with Ed?”

I don’t want to talk about it and so I don’t even respond to the question.

“Danna,” I tell her, “this is happening more frequently now. I mean, is it just going to get worse from here? I think maybe it’s time that we hire Paolo.”

The origins of Paolo are largely lost to antiquity, but I do remember that the name first came up a few months after Danna had been diagnosed.

I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I remember that it culminated in me promising that, in the scenario that Danna gets worse and I, for some reason, am in charge of the hiring and firing of any temporary or permanent healthcare and/or rehabilitation staff, that I would make sure her healthcare worker was a handsome man with a sensual accent.

I do remember that knowing English wasn’t a job requirement so long as he was willing to give Danna sponge baths multiple times a day until she got bored of him, at which time, I’d hire someone new to replace him.

Where the name Paolo itself came from, I haven’t the slightest recollection.

So when I tell Danna that it might be time we hire a Paolo, I’m putting the words in a way that’s likely to be a little easier to hear, but it’s not going to change the weight of what those words really mean.

Danna’s still young and she’s still got a lot of time ahead of her. If she keeps doing what she’s doing, though, she’s going to run herself into the ground.

“We’ve got to do something,” I tell her. “I wanted you to move in so we could keep a better eye on each other. I didn’t do it so you’d overextend yourself day in and day out—”

“I’m sick,” she says, resigned. “It happens.”

“I think we both need a little help here to make sure that you’re not putting your health and well-being at risk,” I tell her.

“You can’t take away my freedom, Damian,” she says. “I won’t allow it, and you’d never let it go on for any significant amount of time anyway, so why bother wasting the time, money, and effort.”

“I’m not trying to take away your freedom,” I tell her. “I’m trying to look out for my sister, that’s all.”

Her eyes are growing heavy, but that doesn’t really seem like the reason Danna’s telling me she’d like to be alone, to have a chance to close her eyes and rest.

Even if it’s only temporary, we are going to have to figure out some kind of help for Danna after she gets out of the hospital, and I’m going to have to try to figure out a way to be there more.

I have to work, and even if I tried to take another break, Danna wouldn’t allow it. She’s the one that got me to take the role in Flashing Lights. I didn’t even want to do the movie.

No matter what I do here, Danna’s not going to like it. I’m sorry about that, but that’s out of my control. There just aren’t enough options.

On the set today, they’re doing scenes with some of the extended cast, so I’ve got the day off. I was hoping to get some kind of repose after everything with Ed, but I’m never going to be able to relax until Danna’s back home.

Tags: Claire Adams Billionaire Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net