Without hesitation, I offer my services. “My car is just over the road,” I signal with a tilt of my head towards my old, black VW Golf. “I can give you a lift.”
Her head tilts towards me, a weak smile on her lips, “If you could drop me home, I'd really appreciate it. I don't need the hospital.”
“Whatever you want.” At this point, I don't argue, I'll try to talk some sense into her while we drive. Then I size up the situation, first looking at the older lady who came to help, then at Calla's rucksack and bags on the pavement. I desperately look around with Calla still in my arms. I was hoping to catch the eye of a passer-by, but everyone who walks past has somewhere else to be or is blatantly ignoring us. “Right,” I say more to myself while debating how to handle this. I'm reluctant to put her down when she can't walk, but what to do about her bags? I turn to the woman staring up at me like she's waiting for instructions. “Can you do me a favour and wait here with her stuff while I get her in the car? It's just over the road, not far.”
“Love, you do what you have to.”
I glance down at Calla. Tears are now streaming down her cheeks while she bites the inside of her lip in obvious pain. “You okay?”
“My head is banging.”
Now I'm getting worried. “You know, I think it might be better if I take you to the hospital, just to get you checked over.” Luckily, our local hospital has an A&E department, so it isn’t far away.
Her head lifts slightly, and with a pained smile on her lips, she reluctantly agrees.
“Don't worry, it'll be okay,” I reassure her.
She smiles up at me then rests her head against my shoulder. “Thank you for this. I'm sorry to put you out.”
“It's all good, I've got you,” I whisper. Selfishly, I relish how good it is to have Calla in my arms but know it’s wrong of me to feel this under the circumstances.
The traffic stops this time, while we cross to my parked car. Now I have a real dilemma and not one I want to ask a passing stranger or Calla, but I don't have a choice.
“I need your help,” I say as she glances up, placing her peaked hand over her blue eyes, protecting them against the beating sun. I take in a breath. “Can you reach your hand in my pocket? I need my keys.”
She shifts slightly, then oh so slowly, her hand drifts against my white t-shirt. Her fingertips trace my stomach, down to my belt then into my jean pocket where the material is thinner. Having your mid-teens crush root around too close to the goods, was once a gift from the gods. Unfortunately for me, now is not a good time. Is it wrong my knob is on the stir? While she continues to root around my pocket, a passer-by asks if they can give us a hand. I can't believe it. Now we get an offer of help?
“We're fine,” she answers, the warmth of her hand radiating against my groin when she stills, “but thank you for asking.” She smiles wearily to the guy before he walks on, not realising the party she's causing in my boxers. All I can do is smile my thanks like a gormless idiot. Thank God she didn't accept his offer.
Her fingers dig deep, “Got them.” Dangling the keys in my face, she seems brighter, so I take the chance to set her down gently by the passenger side door but guide her to myknee. I hold her body close against mine with one hand and press the button for the central locking with the other. It's either this way or the few people passing get to witness my giant hard-on. Not useful in this situation.
It's a job to get the door open, but once she's safely seated and belted up, I give myself a minute then run back to the woman who is waiting by Cal's bags.
“You're a saint,” I tell her.
“Just make sure she's alright will you, love. It seems as if she's all alone.”
I stop for a sec, her words making me think. “Yeah,” I nod. “Don't worry, I'll take care of her and thanks again for all your help.” A strange hunger washes over me as I turn away. It's a need to wrap an armour of warmth and protection around Cal. “What the hell was that?” I say under my breath before taking in a lung full of sea air and running back over the road.
I drive quickly but carefully to the local A&E department.
“I'm so sorry about this, I'm not great with pain,” she says, her voice croaky.
“It's not a problem, how is it feeling. Any better?”
“It's still stinging, but I'm not dizzy anymore. I'll live.” Calla laughs, dropping her head back against the headrest.
A few seconds of silence falls between us, before I snatch a glance her way, then concentrate back on the road. I notice from the corner of my eye she does the same. I glance again, then so does she. I huff out a laugh. It's plain to see neither of us knows what to say, so I attempt to relax us both. “How have you been Calla? I haven't seen you around since the day I left Braebeach Secondary.”
She laughs, “Oh yeah, I remember you well as a floppy-haired sixteen-year-old. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you since.” Then her smile drops a little, her lips a tight line. “This is the first time I've been home in a while, what a way to make an entrance, right?” She half-heartedly laughs then places her fingers to the giant purple lump on her forehead. “Note to self, no laughing. That hurt.” We're quiet again for a second or two, then Calla adds, “If I remember right, we didn't exactly part ways as friends.”
“Didn’t we? Why not?” I was bloody crazy about her, so now I'm just confused.
“Scott Knox ring any bells?”
Fuck, I'd been so wrapped up in seeing Calla again, I'd forgotten about Scott. “Ahh, yeah” I nod.
She looks at her hands. “I still have no idea what I did to piss Scott off, but he was one giant knob towards me.”
