Instead, I’d only noticed when one of the pastel-shirt guys, courtesy of one of the bearded guys, had landed like a projectile into the back of Reid’s stool.
And that’s when I learned that Reid Sutherland—despite his stoicism, despite his civility, despite his slight inebriation—absolutely knows how to fight.
His reflexes had been superhero-fast, one hundred percent not-intoxicated fast. He’d stood from his stool, all his height blocking me from the encroaching crowd, and for one brief, mindless second, I’d done the thing I’ve been wanting to do for weeks: I’d pressed my body close to his.
In the seconds after—it must’ve only been seconds, though it’d felt much longer—the chaos had been overwhelming, somehow managing to be both an in- and out-of-body experience. I’d felt it when a cold splash of beer had landed on the back of my dress, and I’d heard my own brief yelp of surprise as I’d jumped away from Reid’s body in shock. I’d felt it when his body had then briefly knocked into mine, the force of the stray elbow to his brow that’s brought us here, and I’d heard his grunting exhalation of pain.
And then I’d seen something change in the line of his back—a broadening, a stiffening.
A preparation.
But had I really felt it when he’d turned and grabbed me by the wrist? When he’d tucked my body close to his, when he’d put an arm around my shoulders and started to shove his way through the crowd of angry, sloppy patrons? Had I really seen it right, when one of those patrons threw a lazy, misdirected punch in our direction? Had I truly heard Reid—quite lateReid!—mutter a quiet, frustrated “Fuck” through clenched teeth before he’d moved me out of the way? Had that been real, him ducking that punch, him pulling back his arm and making a fist as the guy started coming again?
Could I actually have felt the force of that ham-fisted, sloppy-drunk guy thudding to the ground at my feet?
“What about his hand?” I say now, in the firm, no-nonsense voice I seem to have had since we walked in here, and the truth is, I’m still surprised to hear it. Aliteralfight, and I feel stronger than I have in ages. In the lobby my hand had been rock-steady as I’d filled out Reid’s paperwork, quietly but quickly asking him questions that he would answer stiffly, his voice muffled from the fresh, icy-cold compress the check-in nurse gave him.
“I’m okay, Meg,” Reid says, his voice low and soothing. For a split second some of my newfound strength falters.I like you so much, Meg, he’d said, but he’s been quiet ever since, and if I look at him now—if I see that bruised, bloody brow, the one he got for me—I may not be able to stay focused on the most important thing, which is making sure he’s okay.
I keep my eyes on the doctor, waiting for her answer.
“In this case, the patient and I agree. His hand looks fine.” She directs her next comment to him. “Someone must’ve taught you to make the right kind of fist.”
Reid gives a bored shrug worthy of pastel-shirt guy. This slight air of sullenness is the only lingering symptom of his former inebriation. He has looked stone-cold sober from the moment that man hit his stool, though the energy bar I forced him to eat (another gem from my bag) and the ten tiny cups of water I made him drink out in the lobby probably helped.
“I’m going to grab an NP who’s got a steadier hand than me to stitch you up, okay?” Then she turns to me again, speaking as though Reid isn’t in the room. “Keep an eye on him tonight. If he seems disoriented, or has light sensitivity, or complains of nausea, give us a call.”
“She’s not—” Reid begins, but I cut him off. Reid may have punched a guy in the face (better than pistols at dawn, I am now assured) before I could get clocked by an errant fist, but I’m ending this night as rescuer-in-chief. I got him to this urgent care, and I’m going to be the one who wakes him up every hour to shine a light in his eyeballs, though that is probably not what this doctor means about checking for light sensitivity.
“I will,” I say. “He’s staying at my place.”
In my periphery, I see Reid turn his head sharply toward me.
“Great,” says the doctor, snapping the cover closed on her tablet. “You all have a good night, and try to stay out of trouble.” The door shuts behind her with a decisive click.
And then Reid and I are alone—truly alone—for the first time in a week.
“Meg, you don’t have to—”
This time, it’s me who turns sharply, and I finally let myself take in the full force of his bruised face. My heart clutches, but I don’t wince. Somehow I know—as though I’ve been practicing for a lot longer with Reid than I realized—that if I show pity toward him right now, he’ll fight me so much harder.
“You’re staying with me. You don’t even have your phone.”
“I have my MetroCard. And my feet.”
“You’re about to getstitches.” I cross my arms over my chest, and I register how strange it feels to do it. I don’t think I’ve ever stood this way in my whole life. It’s weirdly satisfying. “Wheredidyou learn to punch like that, anyway?”
I don’t ask so much because I care, but because I’m trying to distract him from arguing with me about staying over tonight.
He blinks down at his hand. “My older brothers. To help me at school.” He pauses, then looks up at me with an expression of such naked embarrassment that I immediately uncross my arms.
“Please don’t think I do that often,” he says.
“I don’t,” I say quickly, feeling some of the fight drain out of me. “Of course I don’t.”
“Or . . . drink that way. It’s rare. And I hadn’t eaten all day. I only had—”
“Reid, it’s fine.”
