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Thirty-Two
THE DOC ATthe ER called the scrape on my head a “million-dollar wound.”
Bad enough, in theory, to earn me some time off work, but not bad enough to need stitches.
Or, you know, to have killed me.
“One millimeter closer,” the doc said, after letting out a long whistle, “and it would be a whole different story.”
Once they cleaned me up and got a good look, it was like a two-inch-long, pencil-lead-wide trench above my ear—with the sides built up a tiny bit, like a berm.
Jack took a bunch of photos with my phone so I could see.
They didn’t have to shave too much of my hair, which was nice. Just pulled the bulk off into a surprisingly perky side ponytail. Then they irrigated and disinfected it, packed it with an antibacterial ointment, and covered it with a dressing—encircling my head with gauze like the sweatband of a 1970s tennis player.
“This is actually a good look for you,” Jack said.
I just kept thinking it could’ve been so much worse.
They didn’t even keep me overnight. Once the MRI came back fine, they discharged me with some antibiotics, industrial-strength Tylenol, and strict instructions to “treat it like a concussion.” No driving, no sports, no roller coasters.
Check.
Jack and I had arrived at the ER in an ambulance, and so Glenn sent a car later to pick us up. And in a classic, Glenn Schultz–style sadistic flourish, he made Robby drive it.
Do we need to review all the times Robby said there was no way I could ever pass for Jack Stapleton’s girlfriend? Do we need to reflect on Robby’s astonishing callousness from the breakup and beyond? Do we need to have a moment of realization here that Robby’s strategy for keeping me in a bad relationship was to convince me that I didn’t deserve a better one?
All true.
But maybe we can just savor this particular, exquisite moment from that night, right as Jack and I reached the car, when Robby, trying to manifest some big secret-service energy, opened the back door of the Tahoe and started to help me in.
Robby might have passed for a cool guy in that moment.
If he weren’t standing two feet from Jack Stapleton.
And if I hadn’t just come to a whole new understanding of what, exactly, a cool guy was.
Anyway, Jack stopped him as he reached for me.
“I got it, man,” Jack said.
“It’s my job,” Robby said, trying to continue.
But Jack stopped him again, stepping between us to block Robby’s access, moving in with such purpose that Robby just lost his momentum.
Next, Jack put his arms around me, all tenderness, and lifted me up. He set me in the back seat, clicked the buckle like I was something precious, gave me a brief but suggestive kiss on the mouth, and then turned to Robby. “That may be your job,” Jack said, gesturing at the Tahoe, “but this”—he placed his hand on my thigh like it belonged to him—“is my girlfriend.”
So.
Not the worst night of my life.
In the end.
JACK WOUND UPsleeping over.
At my place. In my bed.
No wall of pillows necessary.
