“What is it, Birdie? Talk to me.” He gingerly touches my face, tilting it toward him. “Tell me you are okay.”
I hiccup again. “Our first kiss needed to be perfect, and I ruined it with a snot bubble.” I sob even more, because why not? I’m one big emotional mess at this point.
“Oh, Birdie, that kiss was perfect, but I need to make sure you’re okay.” He pulls his hand away and blood glistens on his fingertips.
I gag, because blood. I close my eyes, but then everything spins.
“Birdie, I need to see what you hit your head on. Can you roll to the side?” He maneuvers me until I’m in the fetal position on the floor, facing a lovely unlit fireplace. Just thinking about the warmth, I shiver.
I think I gave myself a concussion.
“Give it to me straight, Doc, how bad is it?” I aggressively wipe away my tears.
“Well, I think” —Arlo settles down beside me with a toy car in his hand— “the last people who stayed here had kids.”
A toy car? “How is this my life?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to call the doctor.” He wiggles out his phone, waving it in front of me for a moment. “Do you want to sit up?”
“This is my life now.”
“You are being dramatic.”
“I’ve already moved in, in my mind, though that fireplace would look better with flames.”
“I think you have a concussion.”
“I don’t think they happen that fast.” Pretty sure I have a solid four hours to determine if I do, in fact, have a concussion.
Which means no winery. I chuckle at the absurdity of it.
The phone begins to ring, and Arlo sets it on the coffee table I narrowly missed as the speaker crackles.
“Arlo?” An older gentleman coughs into the phone. “I thought you were away for the weekend. What happened?”
“Birdie—”
“Say no more. What did she do?”
Even a man whom I have never met knows just how much of a klutz I am.
“Well, she tripped backward over a chair, rolled off, and hit her head on what I thought was the wooden floor but ended up being a little Matchbox car.”
The line crackles and the doctor asks, “What kind of Matchbox car?”
“What does that even matter?” I speak up.
“Well, a Jeep will have a different injury than an Impala.”
“He’s right.” Arlo looks at the little red car. “It’s a yellow Mustang.”
“Eh, it’s pretty flat. Keep her awake for a few hours, then wake her every couple of hours. If she gets confused…” He pauses, laughing at himself. “More confused than she usually is, or if she somehow becomes Einstein, take her to the emergency department closest to you.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“Oh, and Arlo…” The old man clears his throat. “No strenuous activity.”
I bury my head in my arm in shame and embarrassment.
