What the hell is he going on about? What’s so hard to understand about spaghetti? “I’m fine! I made you pasta. Now we’re even.”
He says nothing for a moment, and then he goes pale. “Oh, hell. You’re not okay, are you?”
I watch in slow motion as the pasta container falls to his feet, and then I have just enough time to glance up at him. That’s when I realize I’m about to seize, seconds before my limbs completely give out on me.
The last thing I’m aware of is him catching me before I hit the ground.
And then it all goes black.
SIX
NORTH
This is notmy first seizure, but this is my firstLeoseizure. He doesn’t have epilepsy—I know that much. Easton told me it was a side effect of his brain injury from his accident. I don’t know the exact details other than it was a hiking trip gone wrong, and Leo’s husband didn’t survive.
Easton’s explained everything Leo has to deal with now, but I haven’t been around him enough to see any of the stuff Easton worries about.
Until now, apparently.
I’d been about ready to punch him in the face for leaning on my buzzer, but then I realized something wasn’t right. He was having horrible aphasia, and his words were coming out slurred and wrong.
And now there’s a container of some kind of pasta at my feet, Leo’s still in my arms, and I have just enough sense to time the seizure so I know whether or not to call dispatch and get an ambulance over here.
Thank god it only lasts a minute. I’m in a crouch as I hold him against me, and my thighs are burning, but his limbssuddenly go lax, and I stare down at him as his breathing begins to even out.
Then his eyes start to flutter. When they open, they’re not focused.
“Leo? Hey, can you hear me?”
He says nothing.
Luckily, I work out a lot because this job means having to lift furniture, sometimes beams that are on fire, and too often grown adult humans, so it doesn’t take much to hoist Leo into my arms and walk him inside.
I’m not sure he’s going to appreciate being in my shitty little house when he comes to, but I’m also not about to cart him up the street back to his place in this state. And considering the guy can’t possibly hate me more than he does now, I’m not going to lose sleep over dropping him on my couch, which is arguably the most uncomfortable bit of furniture I own.
And it’s also the oldest.
I nabbed it from Mrs. Harold’s estate sale the week I moved in. She spent years letting her little shih tzus sleep on it, so it also smells like dog.
“Okay,” I murmur as Leo lets out a soft groan. I press my fingers to his neck. He’s tachy, but his heart rate isn’t high enough for me to be worried. His head tilts to the side, where I can see only his left eye is open. I check his pupil, which seems to be responding to the light coming in through the window, and then he focuses on me.
“Hi.”
He blinks, and his mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
I press my fingers to his neck again and breathe out a sigh of relief that his pulse is starting to slow down. “I’m gonna go get my little kit, okay? I need to make sure you’re doing alright. Don’t move.”
If Leo were in his right mind, he’d probably cuss me out for saying something that moronic. His limbs are like the spaghetti in the container I dropped, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t remember up from down just yet.
I watch for another moment, almost afraid to leave him, but I’m not doing him any good sitting here. My kit’s in the kitchen under the cabinet by the table, so it takes me all of ten seconds to run in there and grab it.
On my way back, I eye the open front door, then dart over and grab the fallen pasta before closing it with a hard slam to ensure the wind won’t rip it open again. When I turn the corner, Leo is still on the couch, his arms limp at his sides, both eyes now open.
“Can you tell me who you are?” I ask as I prop my ass on the coffee table and take his hand. I have a tiny pulse oximeter, which does a fairly decent job, even compared to the equipment we use at work. I snap it on his finger, and he swallows heavily.
“Leo Harris,” he rasps.
“And me?”
