When I stumble, he catches me, and those forearms flex making my mouth water. I know it’s not the time, but there’s nothing swoonier than a hot as hell guy taking care of someone, and when I’m that someone… Well, let’s just say that between stabs of pain in my abdomen, I’m wishing to go back to bed.
I frown at him when he stops at the car and jerks the door open. “It’s only a few blocks, we can wa—agh.” I fold over at the waist and clutch the offending part of my body. What the hell is wrong with me? Is this how death feels? Did he break me with his penis?
He doesn’t even grace me with an answer, just a look, a look that says, “Don’t fight me and get in the damn car, Savannah Jane.”
So I do.
When he pulls up outside the emergency room a few minutes later, I shift in the seat. This isn’t urgent care. I want to argue with him and tell him it’s not this bad, but it totally feels this bad. I want to tell him to leave, that I’ve totally got this by myself, but he’s already out of the driver’s side and running around the car.
He helps me out, and we’re facing each other on the sidewalk. I open my mouth to tell him to go but his finger lands on my lips. “Don’t. Just don’t. I don’t want to leave, and I don’t think you really want me to either.”
He’s not wrong.
When we’re inside, we get checked in, and I’m handed a clipboard. Justin surfs on his phone while I fill in the information and try to swallow my howls of pain each time a jag of pain strikes. I know I’m not pregnant, but could this be what labor pains feel like? If so, I’m tapping out right here before it ever happens. This level of pain isn’t for me, even if you do get a bundle of joy on the other end.
“Want me to distract you?”
I nod, sliding down in my seat, still clutching my stomach, and rest my head on his shoulder. I’m cold, in more pain than I’ve ever been in my entire life, and too fucking stubborn to call my mom. She’s going to be pissed at me for not telling her I’m sick, but it could still be nothing, and I don’t want to worry her.
That’s what I’ll tell her. That I didn’t want to worry her over a little stomach pain. I almost snort at my own lie. It feels like someone’s stabbing my insides with a red-hot poker, and I don’t even fully understand why I don’t want to call my mom in this moment.
Is it because I’m still upset at her for keeping my adoption from me for so long? Is it because I don’t want to give her any reason to unadopt me?
Is unadopting a thing? Can they put me back on the shelf like a defective toy?
Fuck. I haven’t been the best child to them since I found out over the summer, and ultimately, I’m officially an adult so I’m supposed to be strong and capable and able to make it out in the world by myself.
Fly, baby bird, fly.
I struggle to wear matching underwear, never mind adulting like a real grown up, and I’m supposed to fly solo?
What a terrifying fucking thought.
“You wanna talk about books?”
I smile through my misery, giving him another nod. We spend the next twenty five minutes playing something Justin calls the three books game. I think he made it up just to distract me which just makes me swoon even harder.
So far we’ve each picked a book that we love and want the other to read. And we’ve also picked a book we think encapsulates the personality of each other, something we think the other would enjoy reading.
Justin’s keeping notes on his phone, I’m pretty sure he’s dropping the books into his Amazon cart as a reminder to pick them up at work, or order them if we don’t have them when he’s next on shift.
We’re on the third thing, each picking a book to buddy read together, when my name is called. The hard stare Justin gives me suggests he’s not going to let me tell him to leave, and I’m torn. The strong, independent, twenty-year-old-boss-bitch wants to push back and tell him I’m fine and can do it all by my big girl self. But the rest of me could cry with relief because I’m not completely sure that I can.
What if something’s really wrong with me?
The doctor examines me and sends me for an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech makes a joke about the carb-heavy dinner I must have had the night before, and my simmering embarrassment rears its head again.
Justin makes jokes about how much he loves pie while the very nice nurse lady gives me a shot of something to take the edge off. Turns out she doesn’t just mean the pain, the meds take the edge offeverything.
The whole room gets a little fuzzy as the cool liquid injected into my arm spreads around my body making me care just a little less abouteverything.
I think I’m slipping in and out of consciousness. My nose is itchy but my fingers don’t care enough to scratch it. Did she cure my pain with that shot? Did I just need some morphine and now I’m good?
I’m staring at Justin, wondering if he’s a figment of my imagination. Is that why he’s being so amazing? Because he’s the book boyfriend dreams are made of, conjured from the depths of my own mind?
His smile is strained, concerned, I guess he was hoping I needed to fart, too. His smile widens and I realize I spoke out loud, but I think I’m too buzzed to care right now.
He shifts his chair closer to my bed and strokes my hair. “Yeah, pretty girl. I was hoping you just needed to fart. I don’t think you realize just how much it sucks seeing you in pain.” He rubs at his chest like he’s the one with indigestion.
