Free Maybe in Another Life by Taylor Jenkins Reid Page B

back up at me. “From experience, I can tell you that if you go around trying to figure out what’s fair in life or whether you deserve something or not, that’s a rabbit hole that is hard to climb out of.”
    I smile at him. “You might be right,” I say, and then I close my eyes. Conversation takes more energy than I thought.
    “Anything I can get you?” he whispers before he leaves.
    I shake my head slightly. “Er, actually . . . maybe a hair tie?” I point to my head. My hair is down around my shoulders. I am lying on it. I hate lying on my hair.
    “That’s an easy one,” he says. He pulls one out of his shirt pocket. I look at him, surprised.
    “I find them all over the hospital. Someday maybe I’ll tell you about the elaborate reminder system I use them for.” He comes close and puts one in my hand. I only get a slightly better look at his tattoo. I still can’t make it out.
    “Thanks,” I say. I lean forward, trying to get a good angle, trying to gather all of my hair. But it’s hard. My entire body aches. Moving my arms high enough seems impossible.
    “Hold on,” he whispers. “Let me.”
    “Well,” I say, “I don’t want a ponytail.”
    “OK . . .” he says. “I don’t have to braid it, do I? That seems complicated.”
    “Just a bun. High up.” I point toward the crown of my head. I don’t careif the bun looks good. I just want it out from under my head and neck. I want it contained and out of the way.
    “All right, lean forward if you can.” He starts to gather my hair. “I think this is the beginning of a complete disaster.”
    I laugh and push my body forward. I wince.
    “Let’s get you a bit higher dosage on the pain meds. Does that sound OK?” he says. “You shouldn’t be in that much pain.”
    I nod. “OK, but I think they’ve turned it as high as it will go.”
    “Oh, I don’t know about that. We might be able to go higher.” He drops my hair momentarily and moves toward my IV. I can’t see what he’s doing; he’s behind me. And then he’s in front of me again, picking up my hair. “I mean, you might start saying weird things and having hallucinations,” he jokes, “but better that you’re not in pain.”
    I smile at him.
    “All right, so I’m just gathering all of this hair and putting it on the top of your head and then wrapping a rubber band around it?”
    “Yeah.”
    He leans into me, our faces close together. I can smell the coffee on his breath. I feel slight tugging and pressure. He’s got some of my hair caught, pulling tightly against my scalp.
    “Looser? Maybe?” I say.
    “Looser? OK.” His arms are in my face, but the tattoo is facing the other direction. I bet it’s a woman’s name. He seems like the kind of guy who met a woman on some exotic island and married her and they have four beautiful children and live in a house with a gourmet kitchen. She probably makes beautiful dinners that incorporate all the food groups, and I bet they have fruit trees in their backyard. Not just oranges, either. Lemons, limes, avocados. I think the medication is up too high.
    “OK,” he says. “Voilá, I guess.”He backs away from me ever so subtly to check his work.
    By the look on his face, I can tell that my bun looks ridiculous. But it feels right. It feels like a high bun. I feel like myself for the first time today. Which . . . feels great. I feel great. Also, I’m definitely high.
    “Do I look silly?” I ask.
    “It’s probably not my best work,” he says. “You pull it off, though.”
    “Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome,” he says. “Well, if you need any other hairstyles, just press that button. I’m here for the next eight hours.”
    “Will do,” I say. “I’m Hannah.”
    “I know,” he says, smiling. “I’m Henry.”
    When he turns and leaves, I finally get a good glimpse of his tattoo. Isabelle.
    Man, all the good ones are taken by Isabelles.
    I lay my head down, relishing the free space behind my