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I give myself three point seven seconds to freak the fuck out then trot back to Noah and crouch down next to him, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Are you okay?”
He shoots me an incredulous glare.
“I mean, obviously you’re not, but, is this like one of those ‘I need a minute’ things or this is a full-blown ‘something’s broken’ thing?
“Somewhere in the middle.” He closes his eyes, chest rising dramatically on a deep breath that he seems to hold for a few seconds before letting it slowly out.
“Right. And that means what exactly? Do I help you get inside or call a doctor or…” The corner of my lip tries to tick upward, and I press them together to try to keep them flat.
Noah blinks me into focus and cringes. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not.” I slap my hand over my mouth, which doesn’t do anything to stop my lips from twitching except hopefully make it less noticeable.
“Now you’re laughing?”
“I… No.” I shake my head vigorously back and forth, never taking my hand off my mouth.
“This is funny to you?” Anger and hurt war for dominance in his eyes.
I purse my lips together so hard I bet they’re turning white, which he hopefully can’t see under my hand, and shake my head.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles. “You’re fucking laughing.”
The number of swears in that sentence is telling, yet I can’t make my face look empathetic. I’ve never been able to. Until now, I thought that was because I wasn’t empathetic, but I do actually care about what happens to Noah, so it must be genetic or something.
“I’m not… Laughing isn’t the right…” Dammit I’m making it worse. “It’s a condition,” I finally squeak mid-giggle.
“A condition?” Noah scoffs, wincing when he probes his ankle.
“I promise I’m not being cheeky.” I bite back another impish grin. “Bad things happen, and I laugh. Always have. I used to think that’s because it actually is funny when bad things happen to people I don’t like. Only, I like you and this isn’t funny but I can’t stop myself from smiling. I don’t know what to do and it’s sort of unnerving since I know I should be doing something I just don’t know what. I’m a horrible caregiver. It’s why I don’t have pets.”
By the time I finish my rambling some of the anger has left Noah’s expression, although he’s still sort of looking at me like I’m every bit the obnoxious little shit most people assume me to be. Even though that’s not an inaccurate perception, he’s never looked at me like that before. I don’t like it.
Pasting a concerned look on my face, or what I hope is concerned, I say, “Tell me what to do.”
I must get it right because the big guy offers me his hand to pull him up, and even though he must have at least sixty pounds on me I manage to get him standing with an arm draped over my shoulders so he can hop inside.
We hobble to the couch where he falls heavily onto the cushions, and I stand frozen waiting for more instructions.
“What?” He sighs.
I shrug helplessly. “Want a beer?”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“After I banged my head we had beer, and then…”
“I don’t want to watch you jerk off right now.”
“Whoa, I didn’t suggest that.” I was going to, after I got an answer on the beer thing, but now I’ll keep that to myself. “What do you want though?”
Noah’s head falls against the back of the couch. “How about an ice pack? There’s one in the freezer. And a dish towel.”
“Coming right up.” Coming right up? I’ve never even been a server—no one would trust me around the customers.
After rooting through half a dozen Tupperwares of food his chef person must leave for him, I find one of those gel things that’s technically ice although it’s mushy enough to wrap around a limb, which even comes with a Velcro strap so you can attach it. I make a note to look for one myself since it’s probably better than the frozen veggies I used as a kid. Grabbing a towel off the counter, I head back to Noah, who’s managed to get his foot propped on the coffee table.
I hand him the towel and ice pack, which he tries to wrap around his quickly swelling ankle, but when he can’t get it secure, I take over, even putting a cushion under his foot so the edge of the table doesn’t dig into his calf. I’m already getting better at this. Then I hover next to the couch, waiting for instructions since the cushion thing exhausted my ideas.
