Brett sits on the loveseat, tapping a rolled-up script against his thigh while going on and on about the shoot; the compliments Reiner gave him after screening his scenes, the crisis he had with the hair department over dying his hairpiece to match his new highlights, the makeup woman who was from guess where? His hometown! And while I’d normally enjoy the shop talk, I’m not thrilled about him having a dandy time doing the same movie he’d encouraged me to turn down. Apparently, what was bad for the goose is now good for the gander, and he is a lucky little ducky while I lie here all comatose and pissed off seeing as my almost-fiancée has not so much as glanced at me once since arriving.

Except for my hair growing in weird tufts, a new drip, and another bag-o-fluid, I don’t look any worse since spleen surgery, though I don’t look any better. So, who can blame him? Still, pardon me if in my present state I am feeling sorry for myself. To top it all off, he is right now doing this thing I hate: picking out chocolates from the heart-shaped box Nurse Dani left on the coffee table FOR HIM this morning. He cracks open the bottom of each piece then reseals it like nobody’s watching. If I weren’t in a coma right now, I’d still be giving him the silent treatment.

“It’s going super, though, Jackie. And New York! What a great location. There’s so much to do…” he trails off. “But anyway, the crew laughs at all my stuff. Honestly, I think that’s a pretty good sign.”

He looks out the window to the parking lot where a crowd of our most devoted fans sit on camp chairs. He is spotted immediately.

“We’re praying for Jackie!”

“Tell Jackie we love her!”

“I love you, Brett Haney!”

Brett waves, lowers the blinds, takes a few deep breaths, then looks back at me and cringes. It’s a gut punch every time. I decide to forgive his blathering about the film and to applaud his efforts at communication. How hard it must be to keep a one-sided conversation going. I can’t blame him for wishing he was back on the set. Or anywhere other than here. How long will it take before he lets himself off the hook and moves on? Weeks? Months? Years? He’s devoted now, but will poor Brett stick with me until the hair under my bandages turns gray?

He comes to my bedside, kneels, and bows his head.

“Dear God, if you can hear me, please help Jackie to get better.”

My poor guy. His bald spot is spreading. The trauma must be speeding up his hair loss. I’d find him hot even with a combover, but for Brett, it’s a sensitive subject.