TEN
Lauren
The next thing I'm fully aware of is Max's arms around me, hauling me out of the spring. Then everyone talking at once while I shiver.
“That spring is exactly seventy-two degrees year-round,” Tate declares.
Then someone's jacket is around my shoulders. Then the SUV pulls up. Meanwhile, I’m laugh-crying because my ankle hurts so dang bad.
I'm about to point out that this is entirely my own fault for attempting to navigate wet limestone in the dark while trying to reach a man. I refrain, because nobody needs to hear that right now, least of all me.
That's how good of a friend I am to myself.
I’m in the back of someone’s enormous SUV. Damien is driving, Kate’s in the front seat, Max is next to me, and one of the other brothers is wedged into the back third row of seats. The fact that my injury is now a Hastings team effort is mortifying.
“If I can't move my foot or ankle, does that mean it's broken?” I ask.
Everyone in the car answers simultaneously: “Yes.”
“Crap,” I mutter.
Don't think about Costa Rica. Don't think about Costa Rica. Just don't think about what will happen if you can't go to Costa Rica...
Modern medicine puts pig livers in human beings. And I once read an article about how specialists put a tiny camera in a tooth and implanted it into an eye. Surely someone will be able to fix my ankle. Even if I have to find the best orthopedic specialist in Florida.
Cypress Grove is small, and we're at the hospital in less than ten minutes. Damien screeches up to the emergency room, and before I can touch the door handle, Max is already there.
“I've got you. Don't even think about moving.”
He scoops me up with careful hands. “Hold on tight, okay?”
By now I feel like I might pass out from the pain, and it's impossible to hide the tears streaming down my face.
“No more medication,” I say in a fuzzy voice, looking from Kate to Max, who are sitting on either side of my hospital bed. “I don't like how it makes me feel. I've read enough about those pills to be cautious.”
Kate smooths my hair. “It was only one. The doctor said you can switch to ibuprofen tomorrow but she’s giving you a prescription just in case.”
“Or you could take the pain pills and actually feel better and be able to function,” Max says, his tone taking on a dry, almost professorial quality. “We won’t let you get addicted.”
Kate looks up and shoots him a look. My head tilts to the side and I don’t bother correcting it. I feel a little drunk, probably from the medicine or maybe the adrenaline rush. My eyes landon Tate, who’s in a chair, scrolling his phone with the peaceful air of a man who has decided none of this is his circus.
Damien has gone in search of the vending machines because everyone except me apparently has the munchies.
We've been here for hours. Or it feels that way. At least I'm pain free and have changed out of the wet clothes, because Tate appeared at some point with soft gym shorts and a black sweatshirt, plus dry clothes for Max as well.
Kate points to the sweatshirt I’m wearing. “What does that say? Dog Dad?”
I look down and a giggle slips out.
Tate looks up from his phone. He shrugs. “I got it at the shelter when I adopted Steve.”
There's a long conversation about Steve's diet and weight loss progress and whether salmon kibble causes gas, and I lean back into the hospital pillow. Somehow I doze off around the point where Damien mentions the words “spectacular” and “odor” in the same sentence. I’m suddenly so tired. The next thing I know, everyone's talking about my doctor, and I feel like I'm floating slightly above my own body.
I'm also in some time-space warp where Max won't let go of my hand. I squeeze his fingers. He returns the squeeze, and I smile.
“Thank God for Dr. Dos Santos,” Kate murmurs.
“She's wonderful,” someone else says.
