I mean, Harrison didn’t exactly ditch me and run when the crowd closed in. Not like Pierce did eight months ago. But still.
“Follow my finger,” the doctor says.
I do as she asks.
It’s a private doctor. One I recognize from CNN, which raises a dozen uncomfortable questions about the kind of resources my lumberjack has access to.
My lumberjack.
I must have hit my head harder than I thought. He’s clearly not mine.
After a few more tests and making sure I’m settled and comfortable, the doctor straightens and turns to Gabe.
“Make sure she rests.”
“Will do.”
Which he absolutely does. In spades.
For the next hour, Gabe hovers like a helicopter, checking on me every ten minutes.
I’m officially losing my mind.
“You could have a concussion,” he says for the fifth time.
“I do not have a concussion.”
“How do you know?” he counters. “You could’ve blacked out, had amnesia, and not realized you were concussed.”
I point to the door. “Get out.”
He hands me the book from the shelf. “You get a ten-minute reprieve. Then I’ll be back.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake.
I’ve taken worse hits than this on set. An early lesson learned that stunt people are worth twice their weight in gold.
Other than the small scratch on my cheek, I’m mostly fine. Harrison pulled me out before it could get worse.
No real damage done. Except now my sunglasses are missing. Along with my phone.
Which serves me right.
I replay it in my head like repetition might rewrite the outcome. One post. That’s all it was supposed to be. A quick proof-of-life shot meant for family and the handful of close friends.
But apparently, I hit the wrong button.
And just like that, he’s gone.
Harrison carved this beautiful, perfect day for me, and I ruined it.
The guilt doesn’t hit once. It comes in restless waves. Almost as frequently as Gabe does.
He reappears with an armful of bottled water and lines them up on the nightstand like I’ve been admitted to the ICU. How long does he think I’ll be here?
“I can walk, Gabe.”
He ignores me completely and tugs the blanket higher, tucking it around my shoulders like I’m a kid with the flu.
