My visitor hunches over in the black and chrome chair, his handsome head cradled in his hands. Tears slip between his fingers and drip onto a crumpled copy of the Los Angeles Times.

A nurse with a Streisand bob and red-framed reading glasses bustles around him, clucking her sympathy.

“Thank you.” Brett sniffles as the nurse offers a fresh Kleenex. It must be strange for the nurses to see the Brett Haney crying. On camera, he plays tough guys with steely emotions. When trouble strikes, he juts out his cleft chin, furrows his brow, and squints. In real life, he cries at McDonald’s commercials.

She goes to the chart at the end of my bed and makes a notation, then examines the contents of the IV on the stand.

“Course you’re upset, dearie,” she coos. “Course you are. Surgery went well though, isn’t that a blessing?”

Brett sobs and nods into the pile of soggy tissues.

“Poor thing,” the nurse says. She pats his shoulder and slips out the door.

Brett blows his nose several times and lobs the Kleenex into the wastebasket. “Jackie honey?” He moves the chair closer to my bed. “Can you hear me darlin’?” He reaches for my hand, examines my chipped nails, strokes each finger, then squeezes sharply. “Please wake up, Jackie. Please.”

For one of People’s sexiest men alive, he looks terrible. Three days unshaven, yellow half-moons of sweat stain the underarms of his rumpled white Polo. He’s been sleeping at the hospital all week, putting on a brave face for the Intensive Care staff; the real-life heroes. Now that I’ve been transferred to a private room, he’s fallen apart.

Brett drops my hand and reflexively runs his fingers through his unwashed hair to cover the thinning spot. “Okay, okay, pull it together Haney. You can do this, guy!” He crouches down, springs forward, does ten push-ups, and pops back up to his feet. He circles the room, then retrieves a paper towel from the bathroom to mop his forehead before rushing back over to me as if my condition might have suddenly improved.

“They say they’re doing everything, but I don’t know.” His eyes well up again. “Oh baby, Jackie honey, tell me what to do!” He waits for the possibility of an answer. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat a thing, Jackie. I’ve lost thirteen pounds.”

Brett is obsessive about his weight. Worse than me even. He checks it first thing when he wakes up, then again right after he goes to the bathroom. No joke.

“I’m gonna’ move into a hotel for a while. It’s just…” He takes another Kleenex, wipes his nose, and flops on the wicker couch. “And anyway, I can’t stand being home. I can’t even work out, I’m so depressed.”