by Peiri Ann
I wake up on a bed, in what seems to be the nurse’s office. It smells of rubbing alcohol and those blue, hockey puck-looking tablets that are thrown in the toilet and turn the water blue. It doesn’t stink, but it is not helping my headache any, either. My ass hurts and my head is pounding.
Pushing myself to sit up, the room begins to spin. It adds a nauseous feeling to my problems. Moving with more precaution, I slowly reach for my head. Stopping when I see a figure moving in my peripheral vision.
I want to look, but out of fear of what I might see, I will not, because if it’s him—the hot guy that hit me in the parking lot—and I barf, this situation could get a whole lot more embarrassing.
Without turning my head, I peek out of the corners of my eyes.
There they are—those masculine, broad shoulders even a concussion cannot make you forget. Clearly!
Wait—is he sleeping? His shoulders are moving steadily and calm. He can’t be just staring at me and not saying anything. I question turning my head, not only because I don’t want him to see me look at him, but also because I fear my worsening headache.
Unable to not look, I turn my head, taking less than a second. Maybe even a millisecond.
“What are you doing?” Busted! “Practicing for the exorcist?” he retorts sarcastically.
I’m caught. What type of an excuse can I use for this? Trying not to turn my head fast to look at you, in case you were looking at me. NO!
“Um, I was, um, trying to…stretch…my…neck slowly…to avoid, making my head hurt worse,” I say stupidly, taking one word at a time, just to implicate I was saying each word as it came into my head.
He gets up from the chair and walks in my direction.
That walk. He seems to sway across the floor, his shoulders moving with each step. Left foot, right shoulder, right foot, left shoulder. I quickly peek at him, hoping he doesn’t see. I notice that he doesn’t slouch and his jaw is tight.
I look away as he gets closer. I have no idea what he is going to do or say. I do know he’s close and I want him to touch me again. As long as I don’t pass out…again.
His hands are in his pockets as he approaches the bedside. “Would you like to go get some ibuprofen for your head?” he asks, bending over, looking at my forehead. Well, I assume he’s looking at my forehead. “The nurse is still here, and she has been waiting for you to come to.” Hands still in his pockets. “You feeling okay?”
I must be looking foolishly, because he said that as if it was the second time he’d asked me. “Umm, yeah, I think so.”
“Okay, let’s go see what the nurse has for you. Maybe she can do something about your headache.” With his hands still in his pockets, he offers me his arm to grab.
I refuse to take his arm. Not that I do not want to touch him, because I definitely want to touch him. I just figure, if he wants to help me, he would have offered me a hand for more stability. Offended, I say, “Nah, that’s okay, I got it.” I shoo his arm away.
Still not looking at him, my grip tightens around the edge of the bed, readying myself to stand up. Not sure if I’ll be able to do so without help, but I’m willing to take the chance.
His breathing changes, sounding impatient. I must be taking too long for him. I peek at him through my lashes. He’s looking at me, rising one of his smoothly, thick-laid eyebrows. “You sure you got it?”
“Yes.” I drag out slowly. “Getting impatient?” I ask, sounding a little more aggressive than I intended.
The truth is, I am incredibly dizzy and not sure if—when I stand—I will be able to continue standing. I am also giving the spinning blue and black tiles on the floor time to settle.
“Nope, just didn’t want you to hit the floor.” He smirks cockily. I can no longer avoid looking at him.
Taking him all in, my eyes brush over his slightly-scruffy chin and nicely-trimmed mustache above it, noticing he doesn’t have any hair hanging over his upper lip, like most guys do. I really hate that.
My eyes continue to drift, making their way to his plump, raspberry-colored bottom lip that requests that I get up from this bed and kiss it. Maybe even nibble on it for a second.
He licks it, making my idea of tasting it so much more.
He is dressed down in dark, denim jeans and a black t-shirt, matching his Nikes. He just looks amazing, standing there with his broad shoulders and thick arms waiting for me.
Yeah! Waiting for me to stop staring at him like a total dork! What am I thinking? Come on, Tracey, get your shit together.
That smirk reappears, and his head slightly tilts forward, making some of his shorter hair fall onto his forehead. I can’t determine how long his hair is, but it looks like the top is longer than the back and sides. It has a slight wave effect, also requesting ‘Feel me, Tracey. Come, rub your delicate fingers through me.’
He closes the distance between us, removing his hands from his pockets. “Come on, let me help you,” his voice, soft and caring. It sounds unexpectedly perfect, welcoming me to trust it.
His hands reach out, grabbing my sides, and my heart stops, taking my breath away. I feel his soft grip faintly tighten as he grabs my waist and lifts me slowly off the bed. He places me down gently, my landing is soundless, like a feather floating to the floor.
“Thanks,” I mutter without a breath. We make direct eye contact, when I look up. Something I’ve been trying to avoid since I’d passed out.
His eyes, looking back in mine, swirl from the hazel-brown they were to a green-brown. It is fascinating, stunning even. I can only stare into them, watching the color fill.
He quickly blinks and moves back, taking a little longer to reopen them. My expression must have given me away. I didn’t notice how aware I was of his hands still being on me, until they were gone—a sense of comfort and warmth going with them.
“Come on, let’s go. It’s getting late and you probably need to get home.” His voice is deep, different from the one he used moments ago; it’s stern and precise.
“Um.” He looks up, not to me but over my shoulder towards the doorway. I look at him suspiciously, pointing to his eyes. “You have something going on up there.”
“I know,” he says, shaking his head “It’s such a pain.” He reaches out his arm and hand towards the door, as if to say, ‘Let’s go. After you.’
I like the way he handled that.
I don’t want to pry, so I shrug my shoulders—childish, I know—and walk slowly—still feeling a little dizzy.
“Hi Mrs. Waturstrom,” I say to the woman at the nurse’s desk. “I’m feeling a little better, but my head hurts. May I have something for my headache that will tie me over until I get home, please?”
The nurse is a nice little lady. She is older than she looks. She says it is because her late husband kept her young. He passed away maybe a year or more ago. It’s noticeable it broke her heart. She used to be very bubbly prior to it—she would kind of dance when she walked—and now she is just your basic happy nurse—keeping a smile on and speaking with a slight hint of excitement, but not really feeling it.
Her face is beautiful, with little to no wrinkles—except when she smiles—and no scars, apart from a tear-shaped scar that takes property under her right eye, right above her cheek. It is faint and you can barely see it. Though, for some reason, I always notice it, yet no one else seems to.
“Of course, Tracey. Nice to see you feeling better. I’ll give you a Tylenol for your head and a bottle of water. Just wait there one moment.”
“Okay, thank you.” I rest on the counter while I watch her walk over to her cabinet of ‘relieve your pain’ goodies.
“Now Tracey, I am not trying to pry, but sometimes I just cannot help myself.”
What does she mean by pry?
She looks at a label on one of the pill bottles before she continues. “Would you all happen to be involved with each other?”
My eyes go wide. I know he has to see them—he’s only standing a foot away, maybe anticip
ating me hitting the floor again. “Um,” I follow quickly before he could comment “no ma’am, he isn’t.” I don’t even know him.
“Oh!” I can hear the real shock in her voice. I don’t think it’s that surprising. “I’m sorry, dear. I just thought…well, with the way he carried you in here and his concern over you being well. That boy even fell asleep in that hard chair, waiting on you to wake up.”
I had not even put thought to how I got in here. I look over at him and he is shaking his head slowly looking at her. She doesn’t say anything else, just continues to look in the cabinet and shrugs her shoulders twice.
He looks at me, and I smile at him. “Thank you,” I say softly.
He quickly shrugs. “It was nothing.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, still staring at him.
He takes another glance at the nurse and shakes his head before looking at me. “Not like you could walk right,” he says, reaching around me as he grabs some candy out of the glass bowl the nurse leaves on the counter. “I have to go make a call. Meet me outside after you get your pain relievers.”
“Wait, why do I have to meet you outside?”
“You have to get home, don’t you?” he says cynically, looking at his phone.
“Yeah, but I can drive my car.”
“Your car is at the shop getting fixed. You couldn’t drive it home with a busted bumper. It will be ready in an hour; they’ll drop it off at your house.”
Wait—I didn’t see my bumper busted—was I that out of it? “Wait.” He stops walking. “So you’re going to take me home?” I ask in a softer tone. “You don’t have to do that. I have probably taken up enough of your day already. I can call someone to get me.” I look for a clock. “How long have I been out?”
“Well, you have been out for maybe…” He looks at his watch. “Two and a half hours.” My eyes go wide—what!? “And, nah…” He shakes his head. “It’s not your fault you’re in this situation. If I had been paying attention, I wouldn’t have hit you. It’s my responsibility to make sure you’re okay.” He walks to the door and says, “Meet me outside.”
I turn, seeing the nurse shoo her hand, swiftly shaking her head with a boring, unamused expression. Weird.
She walks back over to me. “He seems like a nice boy,” she says, handing me one of those little cups with two pills and a small bottle of water.
I take them happily. “Yes, I guess so. He didn’t have to carry me from the parking lot to in here though. I know I must have been heavy.”
“No dear, I am sure you weighed nothing more than a feather to him.” She looks up at me, shocked. I have to say, I am giving her the bullshit look. I weigh way more than a feather—hell, than a watermelon. “Well, I mean, with those arms and all.”
I shrug, not wanting to go further into that conversation. “I better get going. I don’t want my mom to worry. Seeing I’ve been out for almost three hours.”
“Oh yes! Don’t let me hold you up. Get out of here,” she says, chuckling softly.
I walk down the hall towards the rear doors—I assume he is still parked in the rear lot—and the swirl of his eyes play back in my head. They literally changed colors right before my eyes, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It was beautifully hypnotizing.
Nearing the door, the spring break sign catches my attention. It’s bright and colorful, bidding us farewell. They must have just put that there. I hadn’t seen it earlier in the week. The sign lights up; there is a bright light that blinds my vision, and then black.
My ass meets the floor for the second time today. I just ran into a wall.
I hear a deep, soft chuckle, while warmth covers me and I’m lifted from the floor. Hands wrap around my arms. There is burning from the touch but quickly replaced with comfort, and the pain goes away from my head, back, and butt.
I feen for more of it, and once it realizes that I realized it, it’s gone. Hands off, warmth replaced by the coolness of the building and the slight, warm breeze from the open door. I’m standing on my own. But the pain in my head is returning with an angry vengeance.
“Sorry, I just keep running into you,” he says, soft and amused.
I reach for my head. “Wow, what are you made of—bricks?” It feels like I ran into a wall with skin.
“Uh, no. Last time I checked, ninety percent water, a lot of muscle, tissue, bones, and a little blood somewhere in there.” He laughs at himself. I give him a look that says ‘cut the bullshit.’ Walking into him really hurt. “I’m only kidding. It’s muscle. I work out sometimes.” Sometimes! “Sorry I walked into you,” he says, with a more serious voice. “I wasn’t paying attention. Once again, my head was in my phone.”
“Humph, you’re a busy man, huh?”
“No, not really. Just at some points there is a lot going on.” He looks around me. “Did you drop anything? Are you ready to go?”
“No and yes. I need to get home to lie down. And eat.”
“Okay.” He leads me to his truck—an all-black Silverado. It has huge wheels that are the height of my thighs. “You need some help getting up there?” he asks, opening the door.
I notice the multiple handles to help me get in. “Nope, just stay there to make sure I don’t fall, please.”
He half chuckles. “I can do that.”
With only one trip and a fall forward, I make it into the truck. He laughs at me, and when he gets in, I feel obligated to explain that I am not a clumsy person. I am only discombobulated, because I am still suffering from the side effects of the fall when I hit my head—and running into a human wall. He laughs at that.
He offers to buy me something to eat, but I decline. Not to be rude—I just would prefer to get home, because I don’t feel well.
We are three blocks away from my house when he apologizes for the third time—since we have been in the truck—for hitting me and running into me.
“It’s fine, really.”
Nearing my house he asks, “Which house is yours?”
“Just five more houses. It’s a brown and white one with a garage facing us.” He nods in understanding. “You have been very nice to me and I appreciate you. I mean it, you know…what you’ve done for me.” I pause to gather my thoughts. “So what’s your name? ‘Sir hits a lot’?”
He looks at my deviously, then turns back to the road. We are coming up on my house.
“Well, here we are,” he says, completely ignoring my insinuated question. He turns to look at me. “Hello Tracey, I’m Nathan. I apologize again, for hitting you. I give you my word, it will never happen again.” He gives me a boring look. “Sorry you were wrong.”
“Wrong about what?” I ask as he pulls up in front of my house.
“My name.”
“Drat!” I snap my finger for extra exaggeration.
I sit, knowing I should leave, but I can’t. I need to, but I don’t want to.
He turns off the engine but does not turn off the truck. Getting out, he walks over to my side and opens the door for me. “Does your head feel any better? You really don’t know how sorry I am.” He says it in a way that seems like he is apologizing for more than just hitting me.
I shrug. “I’ll be fine after I eat and wake back up. If it gets worse, I’ll go to the doctor.” I smile. He unexpectedly returns it and I melt.
I reach out to grab the handle, in preparation to jump out of the truck. He grabs my outreached hand softly, taking me by surprise.
I am at ease, no pain. Comfort and happiness fills me, yet there is a fire. It is so…alive. It burns through my hand, starting in my palm, making its way up my arm, and starts to creep through my chest.
It’s short-lived as the fire fizzles away with the release of his hand. Although it was burning, I welcomed it. There was a minor discomfort, but it was bearable and I want more. Not more of the burn, but more of his touch.
I don’t even realize I am out of the truck and standing in front of him, when he clears his throat, drawing my attention.
He is looking at me and we make eye-contact. Unable to resist it, I stare into his eyes that are looking back into mine as they start to swirl again, turning into a deep ocean-blue with grey edges. Strikingly beautiful.
My eyes widen, and as if he realizes what I see, he quickly looks away, towards the setting sun. “I’ll watch you make it in the house safely. I’ll see you around sometime, Tracey. Sorry again.”
Through suspicious eyes, I drag “Yeah,” slowly stepping back. “Okay, Nathan.” He shivers. It is getting a little chilly suddenly. “And you don’t have to keep apologizing. It’s okay.” I turn, walking towards my front door.
“Don’t go to sleep just yet. Your car should be back within thirty minutes.”
I wave over my head saying, “Thank you.”
3: Chosen
I slide to the floor with my back against the door. It feels like my chest is going through contractions and my brain is pounding out of my skull. It all hurts so badly. I sit, minutes ticking by as my headache worsens.
There are knocks at the door that sound like someone is trying to bang their fist through the door. Why are they knocking on the damn door so loudly? “What!?” I say—as harshly as their banging sounds.
“It’s Jim, from Frankie’s Auto Body, the repair shop, dropping off your car.”
I get up slowly, every move making my head hurt worse and worse. I open the door and glance up at Jim. “Just put the car in the driveway. Thanks for dropping it off.”
He drops the keys into my hand. “Already done. Have a good night.”
“Uh huh.” I close the door. When I turn around, my vision blurs.
I stand in the foyer of my house, while an annoying sound rings in my ears. It’s not until it stops that I realize it was my phone. And until I rummage through my bag, do I realize I had left it at home.
I refuse to walk up all of those stairs to get it. Hell, I can’t even make it to the couch. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. I mean, he did say I was out for two-plus hours. But why is my chest burning out of control like this? I must have a severe case of heartburn—very severe.
