Page 96 of Je T'aime, Actually

They both stared at her, their faces tight with frustration and helplessness.

“In the meantime,” Monroe continued gently but firmly, “I want you both to get dressed and not give Chloé any lip.”

She gave them a pointed look—a warning, cloaked in kindness.

Then she turned to Chloé. “I won’t be long.”

“We’ll be fine,” Chloé said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “We’ve got lots to keep us busy. Don’t worry.”

Monroe gave her one last grateful look, then stepped out the door, already dreading the stress of whatever news might be waiting at the hospital.

eighty-one

Monroe entered the unit through the intercom again. This time, she didn’t need direction. She walked with quiet purpose down the corridor, straight to Frank’s room.

Inside, the lights were low. No voices, no movement, just the sound of the machines and the quiet rhythm of Frank’s breath, assisted slightly by a nasal cannula. He lay on his back, head propped by a pillow, tubes trailing from one arm, wires monitoring everything from his heart rate to his oxygen levels.

No sign of Poppy.

Monroe glanced up and down the hallway—empty—so she stepped in, pulling the door half-closed behind her, and crossed to the chair by the bed.

“Hey, Frank,” she said gently, settling down beside him. She reached for his hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “Just popping in to see how you’re doing. I brought a bag for Poppy. Clean clothes. Snacks. Your pyjamas, too. Figured when you decide to stop slacking off, you’ll want your Arsenal T-shirt.”

She chuckled lightly, her thumb brushing his knuckles.

“The kids can’t wait to see you. Still bickering like champions. Benji kidnapped Kitty’s doll in the kitchen this morning—it was very dramatic. You’d have loved it.”

A quiet cough behind her made Monroe turn.

Poppy stood in the doorway, arms folded around herself, a small, tired smile on her face. “I do that,” she said softly. “Talk to him.”

“Well,” Monroe said, rising and wrapping her arms around her friend, “he’s in there somewhere, isn’t he?”

She gestured to the bag she’d brought and placed on the visitor chair. “I packed you clean clothes, some pyjamas, toiletries. Your phone charger. A couple of books. And snacks—the good kind.”

Poppy’s face crumpled a little with gratitude. “Thank you. My battery’s almost dead.”

“I figured.” Monroe reached out and briefly touched her arm. “There’s some stuff for Frank, too. In case he decides to rejoin us soon.”

She tried to keep her tone light, but when she looked at her friend’s face, the weight of it all settled again.

“Any news?” she asked quietly.

Poppy shook her head, blinking fast. “They’re running more tests today. But…” Her voice faltered. “They said he might have…brain damage. If he wakes up, it might not be the same Frank.”

Monroe reached for her again, pulling her close. “Then we’ll figure it out, whatever that means.”

Poppy held on tightly. “I’m so scared, Mon.”

“I know,” Monroe whispered, “but you’re not on your own. We’re all here, every step.”

“For now.” Poppy smiled sadly. “Your life is in France.” She shook her head immediately. “I’m sorry—that sounded so selfish. I just…” Her voice cracked, “I’m on my own. We’re a team—me and Frank. If I don’t have him, I don’t know how to do this.”

Her composure collapsed, the words finally unravelling her, and Monroe pulled her into her arms without hesitation.

There wasn’t anything to say. No comfort that wouldn’t feel like a lie. It was all on Frank now.

He had to wake up.