“Jerk,” I said.“I never should have let you talk me into doing this stupid Turkey Trot—”
And that was when my foot went into a hole in the ground.I stumbled, my foot twisted, and pain ignited in my ankle.As I fell, I let out a cry.
I barely had time to roll over before Bobby was there, crouched next to me, his hands steadying me.
“My ankle,” I managed to say, struggling to draw slow, controlled breaths against the pain.
Bobby helped me sit up.“I’m going to check it, okay?”
I nodded.
When he touched my ankle, I hissed.He made a soft noise of acknowledgment, but he kept poking and prodding, his face set in its usual reserve.
“I don’t think anything is broken,” he said, “but I’d like to see if you can walk on it.”
“I can’t.Chop it off.And then find a ditch and roll me into it.”
I thought I caught a hint of a smile as he said, “Upsy-daisy,” and the next thing I knew, he was hauling me to my feet.
“Just a few steps,” Bobby said as he released me.“If it hurts too much, stop—you don’t want to make it worse.”
But to my surprise, I was able to hobble one step, and then another, and then a few more.
“That’s enough,” Bobby said.“I’m guessing it’s a sprain.”
“Just take the whole leg.”
“Ice,” he said gently, “heat, ibuprofen, and of course, staying off it.”
“Everybody okay?”That was Brad Newsum (Newsum Decorative Rock), who’d stopped to check on us.He looked like every single piece of athletic apparel he was wearing was new.“Want me to get the golf cart?”
I gave Bobby a miserable look.“I’m sorry I ruined your Turkey Trot.”
“You didn’t ruin it,” he said.And then, in that truly mind-bending way he had of saying things that made me want to unscrew my own head, he said, “I got to spend it with you.”To Brad, he said, “We’re okay, Brad.I’ll give you a call if we need the cart.”
Brad gave us a way and jogged off.
“Uh, not to be rude,” I said, “but I believe there was some mention of me staying off my shattered ankle—”
“Lightly sprained.”
“—and while I want to impress you by being all butch and manly—”
“That entire sentence,” Bobby murmured.
“—I don’t know if I can make it to the finish line like this.”
Bobby stared at me.
“Okay,” I said.“I’ll try.”
“I’m not going to make you walk, Dash.”And then he crouched and said, “Hop on.”
I don’t know if you’ve ever had a perfect human specimen, who is handsome and kind and strong and patient and gets this slightly confused look when you crack your best jokes, give you a piggyback ride.If you haven’t, let me just explain that it is…confusing.There’s a lot of physical contact.And he’s so strong.And you keep getting whiffs of his hair.And you’re regretting every time you suggested to Indira that now would be a good time to make another cake.
In other words, I kind of lost track of the race itself.I was caught up in, uh, other things until, all of a sudden, Bobby swatted my leg and said, “Get down now.”
He helped me slide off and held my arm so I wouldn’t have to put my weight on my bad ankle.We were at the finish line, I realized.Just a few feet before the end of the course.And it looked like the entire town was standing there, watching.
