“Thank you. I have a list from the nurse of stuff we should buy to make her comfy.” Emy hands me the paper. “Maybe you can do a little online shopping while you wait?”
I nod, taking the list and pulling out my phone.
My daily text from Grady waits on my locked screen.
Twenty days until your suspension is over.
I swallow. Since my first week here, I haven’t thought about how much longer I’ll be in Chawton Falls. I’ve been too distracted with Aulie, coming through for her with the fair, and the sparks flying between us. But now I’m halfway through the suspension, and while I was itching for it to be over at the beginning, I don’t know what I want.
I don’t date during the season. I’ve had that rule for over ten years for a reason.
I have zero interest in following the rules when it comes to Aulie, though. Especially after today, especially after having to entertain, however shortly and overdramatically, the thought of a world existing without her.
No, I’ll figure something out. That is if she wants something more than the fuckboy. After today, and her not telling me about her pain, I’m not sure how deep her side of the connection goes. When it came down to something important, she didn’t trust me.
I’m not going to be able to shake that off so easily.
ChapterThirty
Aulie Desfleurs
Play:Hey Jude by the Beatles
Two large hands firmly grip my calves. They squeeze—squeeze—squeeze. That’s too tight. I open my mouth to let them know they’re cutting off circulation to my legs, but my throat is hoarse and dry—currently muffled by some mask.
Where am I?
Slowly, I register a beep here, a comment there, until everything floods like a symphony of machines and hurried nurses.
Right. Surgery. I just had surgery.
I blink my eyes open, finding the heavy fluorescent light shining too brightly overhead. Okay, maybe I could keep my eyes shut for a few more minutes. I fade in and out of consciousness, vaguely registering a heavy pressure on my abdomen.
And oh, my sweet Peter Noone, a swell of pain follows. Something on my arm clamps down, tightening until I panic it will burst on my arm. But again, at that moment, it releases. A cacophony of beeps follows.
“She’s still in too much pain,” a soft voice whispers close by. “Should we give her another dose of the fentanyl?”
“Yeah, we should. But she’s going to be nauseous when she wakes up.”
At this, I open my eyes. I’d rather be in pain than nauseous. Pink scrubs and a name tag hang over me.Vi.
“Excuse me?” I try, the mask muffling most of my question.
“Oh, hi. Are you awake then?” The nurse smiles softly at me. “Are you ready for this to come off?” she asks, gesturing to the oxygen mask on my face.
I nod, and she unclips it.
Slowly, my pain subsides as a cool drip floods my bloodstream. I’m probably too late to stop her from injecting whatever it was into my IV.
“Scale of one to ten. Can you rate your pain for me?” the other nurse I’ve heard in the room asks. She’s donning a similar pair of pink scrubs and an ornate candy corn headband.
A dizzying wave swallows my head whole, and I try to gather my wits about me enough to answer the question.
I’ve always hated the pain scale question because I don’t know what a normal level is supposed to be. One time, during an awful episode, I told the doctor I thought my pain was something close to a six or seven most days, and he shook his head and said if it were a six or seven, I would be on the floor curled up in a ball unable to function so I must have been mistaken.
But I didn’t feel like I was. I wanted to curl up in a ball. I just couldn’t because the feeling and intensity was so constant, and I had a life to live.
Currently, my pain is more under control than that episode. And if that wasn’t a six or seven, it was probably a five. So this is a three?
