Getting up, I check for texts from Sam—he sent me two simply telling me he loves and misses me—and then take a shower. I really do need to work today, and if I can’t focus to write then I at the very least need to do some social media catching up. Rebecca manages my Facebook reader group, keeping everyone active. I post a quick update and then go into my extensive meme collection, finding something funny to post later in the day. I get it all scheduled, reply to a handful of comments and questions, and then switch over to Instagram.

There’s no way I’m going to keep up with the amount of messages I received in reply to my last video of me in the hospital. I spend twenty minutes replying and then force myself up and into the shower. I twist my wet hair up into a towel and go back into the kitchen, finding a note from Sam next to the coffee pot.

Chloe-

I love you so much. Take care of yourself so I can destroy you later ;-)

-Sam

PS. Take Tylenol when you get up and Advil four hours later. Drink lots of fluids, don’t forget to eat, and sleep when you’re tired.

I’m smiling ear to ear as I reread it, and I’m still smiling as I fill a mug with coffee. I take it into the living room and open my computer. I don’t have the energy to actually write, but I can go through the notes Lupe sent me back on the first few chapters of the book. I spend an hour working on that and then get tired. I don’t want to lie when Sam comes home tonight and asks if I took it easy, so I close the computer and lay down on the couch, napping for nearly an hour before my phone rings, waking me up. It’s Sam, and I’m smiling again at just the sight of his name.

“Hey,” I say, voice hoarse.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I need to get up anyway.” I sit up and inhale without coughing for the first time since I got sick. “How’s work?”

“It was a rough morning, but things are good now.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam, but I’m glad it’s good now.”

“Yeah…taking a patient off a ventilator is never easy. Several organs were able to be donated at least.”

“Oh my god, that’s…that’s tragic.”

“It will help someone. More than one person, in this sense.”

“True.” I sit up, sweaty again from being all bundled.

“Are you working or resting today?”

“A little bit of both,” I tell him. “Keeping up with social media is a full-time job on its own. Are you okay with me posting a photo of us?”

“Instead of the sex tape?”

“I don’t think Instagram will allow that,” I laugh.

“Fine, in that case.”

“You should start your own Instagram account,” I tell him, unwrapping myself even more so I can stretch my feet out on the coffee table. “You’re a hot doctor. You’ll get a lot of followers.”

“Social media is not my thing.”

“I know.” I’m smiling again. “And that’s what I love about you.”

“I can’t wait to see you tonight,” he says. “I need to—fuck. I gotta go put someone on a ventilator.”

“Ugh. I’m sorry?”

“It’s work. I love you, Chloe.”

“I love you, too,” I say and then the call ends. I imagine Sam dramatically running through the halls of the hospital, total daytime TV medical drama style, to go hook his patient up to lifesaving breathing machines. I know it’s not that way in real life, especially because the more he runs, the less clothes he has on, and now I’m imagining him bursting through the apartment doors wearing nothing but scrub pants and a stethoscope hanging around his neck.

I close my eyes and relish the thought, and then make myself get back to edits, approving little changes and addressing issues Lupe found. It’s nothing major, but when I take a full week to write something that can be read in under ten minutes, it’s easy to miss little things, and in this case, Kellie had her hair in a ponytail and then was nervously raking her fingers through it only a few paragraphs later.

Once I finish edits on my first set of chapters, I send them off to Lupe and then go back to replying to a few dozen more social media comments and messages. Overall, I have a really awesome fanbase, and I love how most have taken my message of supporting and celebrating others to heart. There’s room for us all at the “winner’s table,” I like to say, and no one should feel shadowed by anyone else’s success.

Then I go back through the few photos I have of Sam and me together, deciding on a photo from dinner when we double-dated with Sam’s friends Quinn and Archer. I post it on my Instagram and Facebook page with the caption “Still feeling under the weather but this guy makes everything better” along with three red hearts. I post it and put my phone down, forcing myself to wait a while before taking a peek at the comments.

I get another email from Lupe with edits on the next few chapters, and this time there are some big changes to be made. Usually, when I edit like this, I’ll open her email full of notes on my desktop and then implement said changes into my document on my laptop. It’s just how it works for me, being able to look from one screen to the next.

“Fuck,” I mumble, not wanting to get deep into edits when I’m out of my usual routine. I think for a minute and then text Sam, asking if I can use his computer so I can have my dual screens. He replies only a few minutes later, saying it’s fine. He gives me his password and I get his computer from a drawer in the entertainment center in the living room. I open my email and pull up Lupe’s document and get to work.

I’m halfway through the first chapter when a text from Archer comes though Sam’s computer.

Dude you’re killing me over here. What did Chloe say??

I lean back, teeth sinking into my lip. What? I need to—no. I’m not going to snoop. I trust Sam and have no reason to go through and read his text. But—what? What did I say to what?

“It doesn’t matter,” I mumble out loud and hold up my hand, shielding the messages from view. I change the settings on his iMessages, making it so I won’t see the preview of a message on the right-hand side of the screen, and then try to get back to work.

“Dammit,” I grumble at myself. Sam probably didn’t think about me being able to see his messages like this. I’m not going to do it. Nope. Not snooping. I let out a breath once I successfully get it so his iMessages won’t show up on his computer, and bury myself back into edits, wishing I had a glass of red wine. It’s my go-to when I’m editing, making me feel sophisticated, which I know is silly. But hey, it helps me get the job done.

I’m feeling sleepy again after another hour, and wanting to stay true to my word, I close my laptop and lay back down on the couch. Fifteen or so minutes later, I’m still awake, so I turn on the TV and try to relax. Not even ten minutes later, my phone rings.

“Ugh,” I complain out loud as I slowly sit up. Farisha is calling me, and my annoyance instantly disappears.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Instagram just notified me you posted,” Farisha starts. “Which prompted me take a look at some of the comments, and why are people asking if you’re still in the hospital?”