I go back to the story, but it’s brought up so many concerns I can hardly fucking concentrate.
"Right, then." Fran comes storming out of the doctor’s office with her eyes flashing and her lips in a thin line. Not sure what crawled up her arse.
"You don't look too thrilled."
She shakes her head. “I'm fucking pissed."
“Why?”
"The doctor said I'm not allowed to go to work. I'm not allowed to lift anything. I'm not allowed to drive, and practically not allowed to do anything other than eat some food and lie on my back on the fucking couch.”
I think for a minute before I reply.
“Why’d he give such orders?”
“Head trauma, can’t risk things, but thankfully the arm is only sprained. Nothing broken.” She huffs out a breath. “Whatever,” she mutters, then under her breath, “not like I’m going to actually listen to him.”
I growl low, angered that she’s doing this, not even half a foot out of the doctor’s office and already considering defying orders. Of fucking course.
“Oh yes, you are,” I mutter, opening the door for her to exit, and giving her my arm to hold again, as a nurse comes into the waiting room.
“Glad someone’s here,” the nurse says with a smile. “She isn’t allowed to drive right now.”
“I know,” Fran says, rolling her eyes.
The nurse presses on. “Having her husband with her is of crucial importance right now, sir. Head trauma is so often underestimated.”
I nearly choke. Her husband?
Fran flushes, her mouth parted, but she doesn’t speak at first.
The nurse hands me a packet of papers explaining her recommendations, and leaves us with a parting admonition. “First thing next week, come back for a second consultation.” She waves cheerfully. "Have a good day!"
Fran makes a face at her back, and I give her a sharp little tug on the hand. Brat.
"Come on, wife," I say, relishing the sound of that a lot more than I should. And even more so, enjoying the look on her face.
I wait until the doctor’s office door closes behind us before I ask her for an explanation.
"Any reason in particular she called me your husband?”
Fran sort of sputters, and it's the first time I think I’ve ever seen her at a loss for words.
“You don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”
I huff out a laugh.
She snorts. “Well… I may have told a little white lie.”
I don't know if I'm amused or angry. "What lie is that?"
“Now don’t go getting any ideas…”
“Fran.”
Her voice is a low hiss. “Well… apparently on the paperwork I still have a husband, and didn't really want to explain to them that I wasn't with anyone anymore. And they were also really getting on my arse about making sure I had somebody with me, and I'm feeling really tired…" She puts her hand to her brow melodramatically. “It isn’t just that, Tate.”
“Then what is it?”
