“Well,” I sigh, “we should probably go to the hospital.”
Ten minutes later I’ve managed to help Olsen and his sister down the stairs and into her car, which is parked out front. I take the front seat and drive as carefully as I can, thankful that it was my left foot that was sliced open so that we can all avoid waiting for an ambulance. Olsen lies across the back seat, clutching a bag of frozen peas to his junk and moaning with every bump in the road. His sister is next to me with a bloodied washcloth pressed against her face, her eyes set sternly forward on the road ahead. We sit in silence for the entire twenty-minute drive to the hospital.
Hello awkward, my old friend.
chapter two
The Chaos That Is My Sex Life
The worst part about being in a hospital is the smell: a malodourous mix of bleach floor cleaner, antiseptic, and sick people. After that, I’d say it’s the lighting; the overhead flickering fluorescents make me feel like a bug under a microscope. The third worst part is the uncomfortable chairs, with the rigid plastic making your ass go numb after sitting for only five minutes. And being that this is Canada, if you find yourself in a situation where you need the emergency room, you can usually expect to be sitting there for several hours. But hey, at least it’s free. I suppose most people’s least favourite part of going to a hospital is the actual reason they’re there.
The woman beside me, Olsen’s sister, does not look pleased with the unfortunate turn her evening has taken. She’s already had her nose looked at. The cartilage is bruised but, thankfully, not broken. The bleeding has stopped and there are the beginnings of some wicked purple spreading under her eyes and around her nose, along with the leftovers of blood dried inthe creases of her face, neck, and arm. Her pullover sweater is ruined, permanently marred by rusty brown stains.
My foot has been stitched and bandaged, none the worse for wear. Considering this whole mess was my doing, I came out of it relatively unscathed.
As for Olsen, he’s still in surgery. I figured I’d wait for him to come out and check on him before leaving. Apologizing for this whole mishap is the least I can do since he was an unsuspecting victim to my terrible luck. As soon as he approached me, I should have sent him packing.Thanks, but no thanks. You don’t want any part ofthis.But I’d been selfish, wanting the warmth of someone’s kiss and touch, to not spend yet another night alone. And he was so goddamn perfect. I guess I thought, just for a second, I could have someone like him.
But look where that got me.Us.
I glance at the woman next to me, who remains laser focused ahead at a blank wall. “I’m Aubrey, by the way.” I reach my hand toward her as if to shake it, then think better of it and pull my hand back, but then I don’t want to seem rude so I thrust it out again.
The woman’s gaze flicks to my hand, then returns to the wall she’s studiously studying. “Lex.”
I regard her for a moment. “Lex. Just Lex? Not like, Lexi? Lex... Luthor?”
Her mouth twitches slightly, though from amusement or irritation I can’t be sure. I lean back in my seat, the plastic protesting, and join her in staring at the wall. We sit in silence for another long moment. A patient is wheeled in and out in a stretcher laden with wires and tubes. Muffled voices talk over the speakers in code. An old lady coughs into her handkerchief.
I blow out a long breath of air. “I’m really sorry about this. I’m sure this is the last thing you wanted on a Thursday night. I took a gamble with Olsen and sort of expected somethinglike this to happen to him—to us—but you got caught in the crosshairs. And I’m sorry.”
Lex looks over at me, directing her intense focus to my face. I shift under her scrutiny. Her eyes are blue like Olsen’s, but not large and vast like an ocean. Hers are sharp and penetrating like a cold blade. Her features are similar to his, too, but everything is smaller, more defined, and with an accusatory edge. Same shade of brown hair too, shoulder-length and plain. She looks like the type of person who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
“What do you mean?” she asks simply. Her voice alone would tell me she and Olsen are related. It’s as if someone took the same instrument and raised it an octave while retaining all the resonance and warmth.
I don’t usually tell people this, but time will go by faster if I can keep her talking. Besides, I’m never going to see her again. “It’s a curse.”
Her eyes narrow. “What?”
“I’m cursed,” I repeat with a shrug. “All of my romantic endeavours end up being super awkward. Always have been, and probably always will be. I’m just sorry you got caught up in the chaos that is my sex life.”
Lex shakes her head. “It can’t be that bad.”
“This is the fourth time I’ve had to go to the hospital for a sex-related injury.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “What!”
“Yep.” I nod sagely. “But this is worse than the time a guy with a foot fetish tried sucking on my toes and it triggered a weird reflex and I kicked him in the chest. Fucked up his pacemaker. I thought he was having a heart attack.”
Lex’s eyes widen. “Wow, that’s—”
“This is even worse than the time we used coconut oil as lube and the dude had an allergic reaction to it. His penis swelled up so bad I thought it was going to burst.”
Her lips twitch in revulsion.
“And believe it or not, this is even worse than the time this guy wanted to reenact his favourite porno and we got his bowling trophy stuck in his—”
Lex raises her hands. “I get it! Wow.” She shakes her head as if to rid herself of the unsettling image.
“So, yes.” I clasp my hands together. “I’m cursed.”
