The next morning, I pack up all of our stuff even though Jett wants to help. I have to glare at him and tell him to keep his ass in the bed where he belongs. The last thing he needs is to break his other leg while hobbling around the hotel room packing a suitcase.
“Baby…” Jett says in a whining voice. “I’m not an invalid. Let me help.”
“You’re recovering from a concussion,” I say, giving him a pointed stare. “Your butt stays on that bed until I say so.”
“You’re even worse than my mom,” he says.
I heft the suitcase onto the bed and zip it closed. “What’d she say about all of this?”
He snorts. “She hasn’t said a damn thing because I haven’t told her.”
I put my hands on my hips. “You were in the hospital with a concussion and a broken leg and you didn’t call your mom?”
He shrugs. “Why should I?”
“Because she cares about you!”
“It’s not that bad of an injury,” he says, but he does look a little guilty. “I would have called her if it was something bad.”
I roll my eyes. “Give me your phone.”
His eyes widen and he grabs the phone off the nightstand, pressing it against his chest. “She’s just going to worry.”
“No, she’s going to be pissed that you didn’t call and tell her immediately.”
Jett sighs and holds out his phone. “You’re right.”
I take it and call Bayleigh. I was right, of course. She was not thrilled to hear about Jett’s injury a day after it happened. But she tells us to be careful getting home and even offers to drive up to get us. I tell her we’re fine, and that leads me to the obstacle I’ve been avoiding.
Driving Jett’s truck.
It’s huge, with an extended cab and big tires and it feels like a monster on the road, especially compared to my tiny Mustang back home. It’s small and close to the road and I feel comfortable in my own car. I haven’t been driving long and Jett’s truck feels like a monster I’d have to wrangle into submission. But I’m doing this for him, and for me, to prove we can handle anything.
Jett climbs into his truck just fine by himself, even though I stand around to make sure.
“Baby, it’s a broken leg. I’m fine, really,” he says, kissing me just before I close the passenger door for him.
My heart pounds as I walk over to the driver’s side, the part of this truck I’ve only ever been near when I’m kissing Jett goodbye from the outside. With a deep breath, I grab the handle and yank open the door, then I climb inside as if I’m totally cool with this.
After all, I do know how to drive. It’s a straight shot back to Lawson, just a few hours of interstate and then we’ll be home. I can do this.
“You look sexy in a truck,” Jett says, winking at me as I start the engine.
“You look sexier than I do in the driver’s seat,” I say.
He grabs my leg and squeezes it, then reaches up and brushes my hair behind my ear. “Baby, you’re a great driver. Don’t let the truck intimidate you. You’ve got this.”
My heart warms and I return his smile. Then I put the truck in gear and pull out of the parking lot.
I was right about the interstate. It’s not so bad driving on it because there are no turns or red lights. By the time we get back to Lawson, Jett’s pain meds have kicked in and he’s asleep in the passenger seat. I feel a sense of pride at being the girlfriend who can handle things when he’s injured. It feels empowering, too. Like we’re both partners here.
When we get home, Jett’s dad meets us in the driveway with a pair of crutches that are covered in dirt bike stickers. Jett laughs when he sees them.
“They’re lucky crutches,” Jace explains to me when I give them both a weird look. “They’ve got me through a few broken bones and Jett’s used them twice.”
“Good ol’ Crutchy,” Jett says, winking at me. “I named them when I was five and Dad had broken his ankle. I wasn’t very creative.”
I roll my eyes and open the truck’s back door to retrieve our luggage, but Jace stops me. “I’ll get this stuff, hon.”
