Page 61 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

Clarissa, who looked like she’d aged about a decade since drop-off, gave me a sheepish smile. “He, uh, overheard the nurse explaining. He’s a little nervous.”

I knelt to Maverick’s level, careful not to wince at the gash. “It’ll be over really fast, baby. You’ll barely feel it.”

He frowned at this obvious lie—he’d inherited my skepticism, clearly—but before he could start a new line of questioning, Holly reappeared and handed him a grape-flavored popsicle.

“Special treat for the bravest patients,” she enthused. “Also, sugar is scientifically proven to make everything suck less.”

Maverick’s entire face lit up, as if this made it all worth it.

I hugged Clarissa and thanked her, told her she could go, and she practically sprinted out the door, which I understood. I’d always liked her, but today she truly earned her teacher-aide-of-the-year stripes.

And then it was just us.

Mav’s bravado lasted exactly as long as the popsicle. When Holly came back with a blue tray full of bandaging supplies, he shrank against me. The minute the needle appeared, all bets were off.

Holly handled the next few minutes like a seasoned hostage negotiator. She crouched down to Maverick’s eye level, explained in measured, glittery detail how stitches were “magical threads” that made skin “grow together even faster than Wolverine,” and promised him the world’s largest sticker for his bravery.

Maverick wasn’t buying it, but he was listening, which was more than I could say for myself as the adrenaline wore off and a new, more insidious panic set in.

I sat beside my son, trying to maintain the outward appearance of a calm, capable parent. In reality, my entire body was vibrating with residual terror. I’d heard all the statistics, read all the blogs about how boys his age averaged two ER visits a year and most childhood concussions were minor. But statistics were useless when it was your baby, your actual heart, with blood running down his tiny face and a blank uncertainty in his eyes.

Holly left us for a few minutes, promising the doctor would be in soon. Maverick took the opportunity to glance at me, searching for cues: was it okay to be afraid? Was this a big deal? Should he try to be brave, or was it time to panic?

I tried to smile, but the muscles in my face refused to cooperate. So I did what any parent in this century does, I reached for my purse and dug out my iPad.

“Do you want to watch YouTube or play games?” I asked, offering him the digital distraction. My hands were shaking so badly that I almost dropped the thing. Thankfully, I didn’t think Mav noticed.

While he got absorbed in the world of pixelated horses on his farming game, I tried to run through the logistics in my head.

Could I take a sick day tomorrow?

Would Selma be upset? Surely not.

How much would the ER copay be this time, and did I remember to update my insurance when we moved like I was supposed to?

What if they released him and he had a brain bleed that didn’t show up right away, and he started having convulsions or worse in the middle of the night?

I tried to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm myself down, but it wasn’t working. I could feel the panic attack building beneath my diaphragm, a low rolling thunder that would break any second.

I wanted to cry, to scream, to run into the hallway and demand that someone, anyone, tell me what to do. But I stayed put, because that’s what being a mom was, swallowing panic and pretending to be the adult.

Just as I felt myself tearing up, the door to the room opened and Dean Lockhart appeared like a blue collar angel. Instead of his typical work attire of a white button down shirt and black slacks, he wore jeans, a white t-shirt, work boots and a ballcap, and a single line of worry etched between his eyes.

He looked sexy and like he’d been carved from the same wood as the hospital furniture—sturdy, practical, impossible to move. For a moment, I just stared at him, unable to process how he was here, or why. I hadn’t texted him since I arrived, hadn’t even updated him like I’d promised to. But somehow, he was here anyway.

Dean inclined his head in my direction, then surveyed Maverick like he was doing a visual diagnosis. His gaze was clinical, like he was scanning for injuries before he said, “Hey, little man.”

Mav’s head snapped up, eyes wide, and his arms outstretched. “Dean!”

Dean walked over and hugged Mav, and the sight caused me to have a physical reaction. My body responded before my brain did, every muscle in my neck and back unclenched, my lungs stopped fluttering, and for the first time since I’d gotten the call, I remembered how to breathe.

His eyes met mine as Mav released him from the bear hug. “You holding up?” he asked softly, and the concern in his voice—the kind that wasn’t performative but actual bone-deep worry—made my eyes sting.

“I’m…” I started, then had to stop and collect myself. “I’m okay. He’s okay. They said, uh, stitches and observation.”

Dean nodded, and without hesitation, took the seat next to me. We were close enough that I could smell the faint scent of woodsmoke and some kind of industrial hand soap. It was the most comforting thing I’d ever inhaled. For the next several minutes, the three of us sat in suspended animation, waiting for the doctor while Mav continued to build his farm and show Dean every time he fed or attained a new animal.

I watched as Dean let Maverick explain, in minute detail, how each characters worked and which animals got along, and never once did he look bored or check his phone.