I groaned. “Seriously?”
That’s when I heard Henry whimpering.
I launched to my feet and raced to his room. “Henry?” I said, flipping on his light as I burst inside. “Baby, are you okay?”
He was thrashing around on his bed, writhing in pain.
“Oh, God,” I breathed, rushing to scoop him up. I somehow managed to find my shoes and my keys despite my panic. By the time we were halfway to the elevators, Henry’s whimpers had turned into agonized moans.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said, stabbing the down button. “It’s okay. Mama’s got you.”
“Zellie?”
I glanced behind me to see Whit, hair mussed, barefoot, wearing only jeans and T-shirt, sleep still clinging to him.
A strangled sob was all I could manage.
Whit pivoted instantly and ran back toward his apartment. The elevator doors opened, and I rushed in, punching the button for the main floor.
When the doors slid open again, Whit was already waiting.
How the hell had he gotten downstairs so fast…?
“I’m driving,” he said, jogging ahead to open the front door.
The drive to the ER was a blur. All I could remember was sitting in the backseat of Whit’s car with Henry in my arms while Whit drove at breakneck speed.
Oddly, there was no wait in the emergency room. Henry received pain medicine and was admitted to a room in minutes.
And then I lost all sense of time.
There was only the endless waiting while the doctors worked to figure out what was causing Henry’s pain. They sedated him, transfused him, poked and prodded and scanned him. And all I could do was sit by his bed, questioning every choice I’d made, berating myself for not doing something more—whatever the hell that would’ve been.
Finally, after what I deduced to be two days based on the number of trays of food that had been brought to me but which I hadn’t eaten more than a few bites, Henry started to improve. A day later, we were discharged with still no official diagnosis but lots of sympathetic smiles and well-wishes.
“I need to give you my address and insurance information,” I told the patient coordinator who brought us our final paperwork. “We didn’t have a chance to do any of that when we arrived.”
She smiled. “No need. That’s already been taken care of. Your friend gave us your contact information.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay. Do I need to pay my co-pay before we leave, or will you just bill me?”
She gave me another smile. “No, that’s been taken care of.”
“What’s been taken care of?” I asked, shaking my head in confusion.
“The bill.” She turned her clipboard to me. “Just sign here,” she said, tapping the x on the release form with her pen before handing it to me.
My mind still trying to wrap my head around the fact that the bill was paid, I did as instructed.
She patted my shoulder when I handed back the clipboard. “You take care now, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmured. “Thank you.”
“I’ll send the nurse in to wheel Mr. Henry to the car,” she told me. “Your ride is already here.”
I blinked at her, confused. I hadn’t called anyone.
Whit must’ve arranged that too. Part of me bristled—here he was once again arranging things without consulting me first. But another part of me, the very tired, worn-down part of me, felt a rush of gratitude and pleasure. I’d needed help, and he’d been there.
