The Bodyguard (33)
I knocked on the door, and then I opened it as I said, redundantly, “Knock, knock.”
The three Stapleton men were seated around Connie Stapleton’s bed in chairs they’d pulled close. She was sitting up a little, wearing a dab of lipstick with her feathery white hair neatly brushed—and looking somehow more put-together than a postsurgery patient in a hospital gown had any right to.
She could have pulled off a popped collar. If she’d had a collar to pop.
At the sight of them—live, actual people—I started overthinking it. What kind of expression would Jack’s girlfriend have on her face? Warmhearted? Concerned? What did those expressions even look like? How did you arrange your features? How did actors even do this?
I settled on a half smile, half frown and hoped it was convincing.
Jack must have read my panic because he popped up and strode right toward me. “Hey, babe,” he said in a pitch-perfectly affectionate voice. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I brought some ice,” I said.
Jack was looking at me, like I thought you were staying in the hallway.
I just blinked at him, like Change in plan.
He could tell I was nervous.
That must’ve been why he kissed me.
A stage kiss, but still.
He walked right up to me without breaking stride, cupped both hands on either side of my jaw, leaned in, and planted a not-insignificant kiss on his own thumb.
And then he … lingered there.
His hands were warm. He smelled like cinnamon. I could feel his breath feathering the peach fuzz on my cheek.
I was so shocked, I didn’t breathe. I was so shocked, I didn’t even close my eyes. I can still see the whole thing in slo-mo. That epic face coming closer and closer, and that legendary mouth aiming right for mine and then docking itself on that legendary thumb, stationed right at the corner.
Technically, it was not a real kiss.
But it was pretty damn close.
For me, anyway.
As he pulled back, my knees wavered a little. Did he know I was going to swoon? It was like he sensed it coming. Maybe that’s what happened to every woman he kissed—real or fake. He latched his arm around my waist, and by the time he said, “I’d like you all to meet my girlfriend, Hannah,” he was basically holding me up.
They took in the sight of us.
“Hello,” I said weakly, sagging against him, but lifting my free hand in a little wave.
Did I expect them not to believe it?
I mean, maybe. It was so patently obvious that we were two totally different categories of people. If they’d thrown their newspapers and reading glasses at me and shouted, “Get outta here!” I wouldn’t have been surprised.
But that’s when Jack said, “Isn’t she cute?” and gave me a noogie on the head.
Next, Hank swooped over to take the ice chips. “She brought your ice chips, Mom.”
On the heels of that, Doc Stapleton—looking gentlemanly, pressed, and neat in a blue oxford and khakis—took my hand, patted it, and said, “Hello, sweetheart. Come take my chair.”
I shook my head. “I can stand.”
“She’s adorable,” Connie Stapleton said, and her voice just pulled me toward her with its warmth. Then she reached for my hand, and when I took hers, it was soft like powder. She squeezed, and I squeezed back. “Finally. Someone real,” she said then.
And suddenly, I knew what to do with my face. I smiled.
“Yes,” Connie said, looking over at Jack. “I like this one already.”
Just the way she said it—with such full, unearned affection—made me feel a little bashful.
Connie met my eyes. “Is Jack sweet to you?”
What could I say? “Very sweet,” I answered.
“He’s good-hearted,” she said. “Just don’t let him cook.”
I nodded. “Got it.”
Next, she asked the boys to help her sit up better. She was a little nauseated and a little dizzy, so they took it slow. But she was determined. When she was ready, she looked at all the faces around her bed. “Listen—” she said, like she was about to start an important topic.
But that’s when her oncologist walked in.
We all stood to greet him—and he definitely did a double take when he saw Jack, like he’d been told to expect a famous actor in that room, but he hadn’t really believed it.
“Hey, Destroyer,” the doctor said with a little sideways grin. “Thanks for saving humanity.”
“Thanks for saving my mom,” Jack said, graciously nudging us back toward reality.
The doctor nodded and checked his clipboard. “The margins around the edges of the tumor were negative,” she said. “Which means it was very self-contained.”
“That’s great, Mom,” Jack said.
“That means no chemo,” the doctor went on. “We’ll still have to do radiation, but that’s not for eight weeks, after the surgery’s all healed. Right now, it’s about just resting, and staying hydrated, and following the discharge instructions.” He turned to Connie. “We’ll get you on the radiation schedule, and then everybody can take a breath until it’s time to start that up.”
What everybody wanted him to say was that she was fine—that she’d be fine.