“It’s fine,” he says, pinching his eyes shut.
I sigh. “Let me look at it.”
He winces. “It’s twisted. What do you think you’ll find?”
“Can you put weight on it?”
He lets out a childish huff. “How should I know? It literally just happened. You were there.”
I swat his hands off his leg. “You must be in a lot of pain if you’re being this big of a smartass.”
That manages to extract a laugh from him, but then he jerks his head back.
Oh god, did I hurt him? “What’s wrong? Is it tender?”
“Chuck. Your boobs arerightthere.” He makes a show of averting his eyes.
I look down. In the shock of his fall and my collision with the penis, I forgot we were defectors in a seminude footrace. I pop my shirt back on and, after a moment of panicked indecision, stuff my bra in my shorts pocket.
“Okay, I’m decent,” I tell him.
His eyes peel open one at a time. “This isnotwhat I had planned for tonight.”
“The naked run threw me for a loop too. Do you have a first aid kit in your van?”
Ethan doesn’t get the opportunity to answer. Instead, Petey scoops him up like he’s a toddler who’s fallen asleep in the car, with one arm under his knees and the other braced behind his shoulders. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll get you to the campsite tonight.”
“No, bro. Come on,” Ethan whines, chagrined.
I grab Petey’s elbow. “Absolutely not. He needs to ice and elevate his ankle. He can’t lie on the ground in a hot tent all night. I’ll stay with him in the van, and we’ll paddle in with Ted in the morning.”
“I’m really fine,” Ethan protests from Petey’s arms. We all ignore him.
“I can stay with him, Charley. It’s no problem,” Petey responds. But then Laurel gives him the most conspicuous glareI’ve ever seen from her (which is saying a lot, as discretion is not one of her many strengths). Petey corrects himself, telling us that “upon further reflection,” he needs to ensure his slightly tipsy fiancée gets to camp safely before sundown.
I’ve never heard the words “upon further reflection” fall from Peter Eriksson-Thao’s lips once in my life, but I don’t push back.
Petey sets a one-legged Ethan down in front of the van and backs away quietly like a naughty child. Then he and Laurel climb into a two-person kayak, and we watch them disappear on the water behind a spit of trees. From the water’s edge, Laurel calls out from between cupped hands, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
It’s only then that I realize I’ve forfeited my last chance to talk to my sister on the night before her wedding.
—
“Ah, ah, ah.” Ethan winces in pain at the temperature of the ice pack, at the firmness of the pillow under his foot, at absolutely everything I intend to ease said pain. His van is surprisingly well equipped. Although it should probably stop surprising me at some point how lovely a life this man has built.
“You’re the worst patient,” I admonish him.
“You’re worse,” he argues.
“I’m a perfect patient. I want to be left alone. I’m like a dog that hides under the porch and waits to die.” I pat the swollen skin with my ring finger, and you would think I dropped a brick on him. “This is astounding. We’re approachingfoam-party-foot-injury levels, Powell. I was hoping I’d never see that disastrous human again.”
“There wassomuch blood, Beekman. I was very high and thought I was going to bleed out on the sidewalk.”
“Oh, I remember. You ruined my favorite jeans and made me promise to ‘Liam Neeson’ you, regardless of the coroner’s ‘confirmed cause of death.’ ”
His cheeks hollow out, like he’s biting on them to keep from cracking up. “I won’t be held responsible for anything I said on Benson’s mushrooms. Those were basically lethal.”
I grab his hand. “You kept yelling ‘Confirmed cause of death! Confirmed cause of death!’ like there would be anunconfirmed cause I ought to seek vengeance for.”
