Two weeks later, I’m in my most comfortable pajamas, completing my typical Sunday night routine of a mani and pedi, when my phone dings.
I let my eyes flick to the side, not wanting to remove the brush from the tip of my nail. Piper’s name pops up, and then my phone chimes again as her texts appear one by one.
Piper: Two weeks already, he’s such a stubborn mule.
Piper: A super sexy, stubborn mule, obviously.
Piper: Anyways, you should come take care of it. Harper invited you.
I quickly dip my brush back in the polish, letting the cap rest before I reach for my phone. Swiping once, I openup to see a slew of messages from her, and my eyes scan the texts so quickly I nearly go cross-eyed.
Piper: I’m at the Hart house for Sunday dinner. You told Grayson to get his stitches out in 10 days right?
Piper: Well he just walked in, all dusty and dirty with a bandage around his arm. When I asked him about it, he shrugged me off.
Piper: Harper said he “didn’t have time” to go to the doctors yet.
Piper: It’s been TWO WEEKS DOC!
Piper: Two weeks already…
I breeze over the rest of her messages and a slight frustration builds in my gut at the fact that he still has his stitches in. At least he has it covered with a bandage, but leaving stitches in too long can lead to so many more complications. The skin could grow over them, making removal a hell of a lot more painful than placement. He might even get an infection, despite the antibiotics I prescribed, if no one has looked at them.
I flop back into the couch, staring up at the dim ceiling light. What am I even supposed to do about it? Call himand scold him like a child? Call his doctor to report him? Then Piper’s last message plays again in my mind. “You should come take care of it. Harper invited you.”
She invited me over to take out her brother's sutures?
Piper: She sure did. He’s cool with it. We’ll save you a seat.
There’s no way he’s cool with it.
The look he gave me when his gaze fell to my hand and saw my stupid engagement ring definitely didn’t scream ‘I’m cool with it.’ I almost told him the truth right then and there, that I wasn’t engaged, that the ring was a pitiful reminder of my old life. That I was wearing it because…
All the oh-so valid reasons I once gave Piper are lost now. Why the hell was I still wearing it? Letting Grayson’s hopeful expression turn to judgement seemed like a less painful price to pay than telling him that I was a single woman still wearing an engagement ring from a man I didn’t care for. A ring that I slipped off my finger that night and mailed back to Geoff the next morning.
But when I realized it was him, it was like everything snapped into place. I couldn’t place it at first. His voice was familiar, a soothing comfort rolling over my skin. The polite nature of his tone, and the deep rumble whenhe spoke. It wasn’t until I let myself look into those crystal-blue eyes that it all came back to me.
The worst day of my life had bled into the worst evening. The people who were supposed to be there for me at my lowest were too busy to take my call. And then I ran—literally—into a handsome stranger who genuinely wanted to make me feel better.
I should have told him that once Geoff and I ended things for good, I went back to Madame Muffin. I sat at a corner table, the same one he suggested we sit at, and I held a cup of coffee in my trembling hands until it went cold, with my eyes plastered to the window in case he walked by.
I dared myself to ask the barista if they keep records of people who ordered cakes, but they wouldn’t share that with me. Privacy and all that.
Instead, I didn’t get to tell him any of that. I chickened out just like I always do, and sutured up his wound with awkward tension blanketing the room. He murmured a soft thank you when we were done, and then he was gone.
Sighing heavily, I pull up my phone and text Piper back.
Snag a removal kit next time you’re at the clinic,you can do it.
Piper: Normally I would. But it looks pretty red and angry. I don’t want to be the one to take out infected sutures and give him an abscess.
I’m up and padding toward my bedroom to change out of my pajamas when I text her back that I’m not coming.
He needs to follow up with his primary doctor.
I toss my phone on the bed, letting it fall into the down comforter before I spin to my closet. He really should just follow up with primary care. I’m not his doctor. I shouldn’t be making a house call. But the thought of something happening to Grayson has my throat tightening.
I could fix this for him. Take the sutures out and ensure he’s fine.
