The Choreographer

30: Hospital

"Your favorite book?" Harry asks me. He has been asking all sorts of questions about me since we argued. Our year anniversary is in two days. I told Harry no gifts, just time.

"Uglies by Scott Westerfeld." I tell him, chopping up onions.

"Sounds sad." He says.

"Maybe, but it's one of the best adventures I've ever been on." I say.

"Fine." Harry agrees.

His questions bother me. They are surface things, like books, songs, brands, nothing that matters. Nothing that really peals away at a person. Nothing that takes layers away. Kind of like I'm doing to these onions. Stripping them down to the core.

Since when was I more proactive than Harry?

We are quiet. I look over at him. He is looking at the ground. He is not used to this insecure feeling. I am, however. I put my knife and onion down and wash my hands. I walk over with my hands dripping wet. I flick the water and Harry to get him to look up at me and then put my wet hands on his neck, partially under the collar of his crew neck shirt.

I am laughing and Harry is making a noise of surprise. He looks up at me laughing. I smile and he grabs me and we fall to the floor.

My head smacks against the coffee table and I scream. My eyes are clamped tight and my hand goes back to my head. It feels warm and sticky.

"Isabel?" Harry sounds worried, he positions himself over me and pulls me up so he can look at the back of my head.

"Ow." I tell him, whining.

Harry frowns looking at my cut. It is bleeding, but it's not excessive.

I make a pouty face at him. I can see him wanting to smile at my behavior, but his brow is furrowed out of worry.

"It's fine." I say.

"Let me wash it off." He says, taking me to the bathroom.

"It's fine." I try to pull away and lose my balance.

I realize that the bleeding is actually excessive. Harry wraps an arm around my waist, saving me from smashing the other side of my head.

"Hospital." Harry tells me, surprising me by reaching around me and pulling me up, princess style.

"I love you." I tell him, putting my hand on his cheek.

Harry responds but I am not paying attention. I look at my hand mesmerized at the deep red blood on it. I move it away, perturbed, and then the world goes black.

***

"She cut pretty deep, I'm surprised she didn't crack her skull." The nurse is telling Harry. "What exactly happened?" Her voice is critical. Does she think Harry beat me?

"Babe," I murmur. I want this stupid nurse to go away. Did I just call Harry babe?

"Bel?" He shuffles around the annoying nurse and comes to my side. I love that he uses the nickname my father used for me. He doesn't know my father called me Bel.

"Hi." I say. "Tell me something,"

"What?" He asks, kneeling next to me.

"Did I get stitches?"

"No," he says, putting a hand on my arm.

"Did they shave the back of my head where I broke myself?" I am sleepy.

"No," he is reassuring now, knowing the cause of my worries. I don't want them to shave me.

"May I talk to her?" The nurse asks Harry, "Alone?"