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“Drink?” the flight attendant asks with a smile.
“Sit and relax. No one needs a drink,” I say.
“I’ll take another scotch,” Enzo says right after I finish speaking.
She moves to stand.
“Um, no. You’re not drinking.”
I’ve seen scathing looks before, many from Enzo himself, but nothing compares to what’s directed my way right now. I’m waiting for little bullets to come pummeling out of his eyes.
“You have a head wound,” I state.
He rolls his eyes and faces out the window. Ha. He knows I’m right.
We wait in brewing silence for another twenty minutes before a man with a medical kit comes on the plane.
He smiles at Enzo. “Hi, I’m Dr. Redwood. You’re my patient, I assume.”
Enzo tightly smiles back then sulks some more. He should be happy. We’re one step closer to getting off this plane.
Dr. Redwood examines Enzo while Nancy and I wait. He stares into Enzo’s eyes with a flashlight, asking Enzo to do different movements with his eyes. Which he does, begrudgingly.
“I’m going to bandage your wound, but I see no need for stitches. I would, however, be on concussion alert. You could come down to the hospital and I can—”
“No,” Enzo cuts him off. “I’m good.”
The doctor looks at him then at me. “So, signs to look out for…”
He rattles off all the things, and all I can think is, “Why are you telling me this?” Then I clue in—he thinks I’m the woman in Enzo’s life. Sorry, doc.
“Keep him awake for a bit, then you need to wake him every few hours to make sure he’s all right. If he gets disoriented or starts talking gibberish, call an ambulance right away.” He stands, and I stare at him wide-eyed. “This was it?” He knocks the wall where Enzo hit his head. “Yeah, I’d bet my youngest that you have a mild concussion.”
“Thank you so much,” Nancy says, seeing him out.
Enzo doesn’t so much as thank him. Jerk.
I look out the window and see a black town car pull up. “Our ride is here. Let’s go.”
Enzo moves to stand then sits back down, his fist slamming into the arm of the seat. “Shit.”
“Maybe we should go to the hospital?” I offer him a hand.
He waves me off. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m fine. I played football in high school. I was hit by linemen twice my size. I know what a concussion feels like.”
He does make it out of the plane and down the stairs without incident, but I’m still worried.
“Thank you so much, Nancy.” I smile at her. “We’ll look forward to that phone call tomorrow. Like, really early so I can get away from Mr. Crabby, okay?”
She giggles.
“Annie!” he shouts from where he stands next to the car.
“Thanks again.” I walk down the stairs slowly just to annoy him. From the way his jaw is clenched, I’d say I’m successful in my endeavor.
“Take us to the closest hotel,” he tells the driver.
“Actually, I need to go to a mall. A big box store at the very least.”
