She nodded, seeming to take it all in. “I should have let you explain.”
“Yes. You should have.”
She smiled. “So…am I even allowed to sit here? I can camp out in the hall. I probably deserve it.”
“I want you right here.”
“Good.” She took my chin, turned my face to hers, and leaned in for a gentle kiss that, quite simply, made it all better. Pain? What pain?
A thought struck. “Wait. Don’t you have a broadcast to anchor?”
“Aww.” She shook her head. “You really were hit hard. It’s close to one a.m.”
I frowned. “You should be in bed, young lady!”
She laughed. I loved the sound of it. “I told you. That’s my seat over there.” She touched my cheek. “And I meant it. If you’ll have me.” She swallowed, nervous, which was so crazy to me I couldn’t see straight.
“Yeah. Of course.” I looked at the less-than-comfortable-looking recliner, warmed. “You’re really gonna stay all night, though? You really don’t have to. I’m a big girl. I took a punch and everything.”
“Your nurse brought me a blanket. I’m looking forward to snuggling beneath it.”
Everything squeezed. She was actually planning to stay in the hospital with me. In a chair. “Of course they did. You’re famous.”
“And milking every moment of it today.”
The next morning, she wasn’t the only famous one. “What is going on?” I said quietly to myself, staring at my phone as the sun came up over the skyline of San Diego. I had hundreds of emails, dozens of text messages, and more notifications on social media than my brain could properly process.
Carrie stirred in her chair next to my bed. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, but for some reason, the world is trying to get in contact with me.”
She exhaled. “Right. Did I mention that the video from yesterday has gotten quite a lot of play?”
I frowned. Realization hit. I’d gotten punched in the face on TV. Of course the video was being passed around. “I’ve gone viral.”
“Afraid so. It might have been on Late Talk last night. It’s also on my Instagram feed. And making the rounds on Twitter.”
Late Talk was national. “No.”
She winced. “Yes.”
“How are we doing today?” I turned at the sound of a very enthusiastic voice entering the room.
Carrie pointed. “Your nurse. Tinky.”
“Like Tinker Bell?” I asked. Why was my life so weird?
Tinky brushed a strand of extra-curly blond hair from her forehead and beamed like the magical fairy she was. “Exactly like that. I have medication for you and good news. You’re getting out of here.” She handed me a paper cup with two pills.
“That’s fantastic. Key question. Have you seen me get punched in the face?”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh yes. The whole nurses’ station has.”
“Wonderful.” I popped the Tylenol. “Thank you, Tinky.”
“Anything for you. Back with that discharge paperwork shortly.” She floated away to medical fairyland once again.
“Cheer up,” Carrie said with a smile. “This can’t hurt any worse than that eye.”
I touched the swollen-feeling skin. “Is it black?”
“Oh yes. But can I have your autograph?”
I sighed. What a week.
Chapter Eleven
I know you.”
“You do?” I squinted at the cashier at the grocery store. She looked like maybe she was in college. Maybe even a broadcast journalism major. I added my bananas to her conveyor belt, wishing they were a little more ripe. “Have we met?”
“No.” She tapped her lips with no real interest in ringing me up until this mystery was solved. “Where do I know you from?” She jumped up and down a few times as if the motion would jog her memory.
I decided to help. “Do you watch the news?” Now that I’d been at the station for a decent period of time, my face had become more recognizable, and I was noticed more and more. It was fun, in a way.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re the one who took the punch.” She covered her mouth with both hands and took a step back.
I sighed and dropped my spinach in front of her. “No.”
“Yes, you are.” She extended her hand and pointed. “My roommate Timothy loves you. He plays that shit on repeat.” She straightened and adopted a more presentational style of speech. “In fact, Lissette, it might be wise if we—Boom. Right in the face. Ouch. Are you okay? Like, you’ve healed?”
I relented. No point in fighting my public. “I’m doing great. Thank you.” And you know what? I was. The bruise had all but faded, and after a short break and TLC from my cousins, I was back at work this week. In fact, Carrie had just left me a sweet voice message to make sure I was having a good day. The low, soft quality of her voice had tickled my ear, and I couldn’t wait to see her. Hell, maybe I’d even figure out how to cook something with all these groceries, and we could have a nice dinner in.
“Will you say hi to Timothy?” she asked, holding up her phone. “I’m recording. Say hi.”
I smiled at the uninvited lens. “Hi, Timothy.” I pointed at my eye. “All better, see?”
She dropped her arm. “He’s going to die. He’s going to lose it. I can’t wait.”
A few minutes later, I handed her my credit card and got the hell out of there, certain that there would come a time when I would be known for more than viral-victim status. But worse things had happened in the world than one little video.
“Hey, BuzzFeed wants to do a write-up on you,” Marilyn from PR said as I arrived at my desk the next morning. “Can you take a call with their staff writer at eleven?”
“Is that a good idea?” I wanted to be taken seriously as a journalist, and this might not be the way to go.
“She’ll do it,” Carrie said, approaching. “Trust me on this one.”
“Really?” I whispered. “Because I don’t want to be the punched woman for the rest of my career.”
“Career being the operative word. Anything that makes people interested in you is good in the world of TV. Especially when you’re an up-and-comer. And you are.”