Skipping a Beat Read Online Free PDF Page A

God!
    “I—I love you, too,” I responded belatedly. The words felt rusty and awkward in my mouth. Why was Michael looking at me so adoringly? Was he putting on a show for the nurse in case she talked to the press? I felt wooden and self-conscious, like I was on a movie set and the cameras were rolling but no one had given me my lines. How was I supposed to act?
    “They need to keep me here for a few days,” Michael said.
    “I know,” I said, relief gushing through me as I latched on to something practical to talk about. “Is that okay? Because we can get Dr. Rushman here in a minute, and maybe he can override—”
    Michael squeezed my hand again, and I stopped babbling. “It’s fine.” His eyes stayed fixed on mine. Those blue eyes were among the few remaining parts of the skinny teenage boy he’d once been. His thick curls were meticulously shaped now, and his teeth were bonded and whitened. Michael was still thin—still twitchy, too, and he always ate like every meal was Thanksgiving—but protein shakes and daily workouts with his personal trainer had broadened his shoulders and chest with a layer of muscle.
    “I’ll bring in a laptop,” Dale said. He glanced around and snorted, not unlike, say, a large farm animal, if one were pressed to come up with an example off the top of one’s head. “Have you moved to a nicer room, too.”
    “It’s not necessary,” Michael said. “But thank you.”
    There was another uncomfortable silence; at least, I was uncomfortable. Michael was stretched out like a sunbather on a Caribbean beach. All he needed was to trade in his IV for a fruity drink with a little umbrella.
    “I should run home and get your toiletries and a robe,” I said when the silence had stretched out too long. “Is there anything else you need?”
    Michael shook his head. He was smiling a dreamy, private smile, like someone had just whispered a delicious secret into his ear.
    “It’s amazing how little I need,” he said. “Why didn’t I ever realize that before?”
    Dale theatrically cleared his throat.
    I get it, Dale , I thought in exasperation. So Michael was acting oddly—there had to be a simple explanation. Maybe he’d been medicated; the faraway look on his face was probably the work of Valium. God knows, every time I swallowed a Valium before an airline flight, I became as loopy as a clown at a kiddie birthday party. That could explain all the moony looks Michael was giving me, too.
    Except—why would they give him Valium for cardiac arrest?
    “So I’ll just go get your things,” I repeated, then cringed as I heard how eager my voice sounded.
    “Hurry back, okay?” Michael said. “We have so much to talk about. So much.”
    His eyes hadn’t left my face the entire time I’d been in the room, and by now I felt almost frantic. The man lying in bed looked like my husband, but he was an impostor.
    “Be right back,” I promised Michael. My hand slid away from his and I walked to the door, feeling guilty about the relief that flooded through me as I put space between us.
    One thing I’ve learned about opera is that it’]s synonymous with passion. It’s in the tremulous power of the violins, the lines of the libretto, the crash of fingers against piano keys, and the impossible arc of the soprano’s aria. Some of my favorites— La Bohème, Fidelio, La Traviata —tell the story of lovers who defy jealous rivals, or scheming interlopers, or layers upon layers of misunderstandings and lies, to end up together against all odds. Even if the ending is sad—and it often is, because death is almost always a main character in operas—it’s bittersweet, because love usually triumphs.
    But one opera is different. In Rossini’s Barber of Seville , a beautiful young woman named Rosina is wooed by Count Almaviva. The Count doesn’t want Rosina to love him for his title alone, so he pretends he’s a drunken soldier (because obviously women can’t resist them) . Later the Count,