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I suck in an outraged breath. “That’s ridiculous. Talk about overreactions. I just need an aspirin and a nap.”
“That’s the last thing you need.” He eases back on his haunches, lifting my chin slightly. “Look at me. In the eyes. Right here.” He gestures to his face.
I try to do what he says because there’s no reason not to. I’m sure he’s still assessing my condition, and if I prove I’m fine, he’ll back off.
But, although I manage to meet his eyes for a couple of seconds, the act of focusing makes me dizzy again. I can’t hold the gaze. I close my eyes and put a hand on my belly when a wave of nausea overwhelms me.
“Okay. That’s it. You probably have a concussion. Even if it’s minor, we’re not playing around with that. We’re going to the hospital.”
“Caleb.” My protestation is feeble. Distressed.
“No argument. I’m responsible for your safety. You’re not going home until a doctor looks at you.”
I want to object. I want to put up a fight. To prove that I’m my own person and can make my own decisions. But fighting with Caleb in this would be futile. And it would take energy I just don’t have.
And also a tiny voice at the back of my mind is fuzzily acknowledging he’s probably right.
So I let him help me to my feet. It takes a minute until I can stand on my own. I really don’t want him to carry me—which I’m kind of afraid he will—so I make myself start to walk.
He keeps an arm around my waist as we go, so at least I can lean on him. I’m honestly not sure if I could have made it otherwise.
I’m conscious the whole time, but I lean my head back with my eyes closed on the drive to the nearest hospital, which is twenty minutes away. I feel like crap. Still dizzy. Still pounding in the head.
I really hope the box didn’t do any serious damage. It doesn’t seem like a simple tap on the head should make me feel like this.
At one point I’m so dizzy I sit up straight, breathing loud and ragged.
Caleb slows down, glancing over. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I’m not even sure I’m telling him the truth. I’m being hit by wave after wave of nausea.
He pulls over onto the shoulder of the road and puts the SUV in park. “If you need to throw up, just open the door and lean over.”
“I don’t—” I almost choke on the words. Then gag.
Then I am, in fact, fumbling with the door until I get it open, leaning over far enough to aim at the ground before heaving as my stomach empties itself.
Sometime in the midst of it, Caleb reaches over to put a hand on my back. Then slides it up to gather my hair into his fist, holding it out of the way.
When I sit up straight again, I feel a little better. But my nose is running and tears stream out of my eyes, and I have the worst taste in my mouth.
He hands me a half-drunk bottle of water.
It was his, but I don’t care. I take a few small sips.
“You all right if I start driving again?”
“Yeah.” I sniff and wipe my mouth and nose with the back of my wrist. I’m sure I have a tissue in my bag, but I can’t coordinate the effort to find it at the moment. “I’m okay for now.”
“We should be there soon.”
I lick my lips. Take another sip. I don’t feel so nauseated now, but I still feel terrible.
It’s my own fault. If I hadn’t wanted to handle it myself, if I hadn’t overreacted to Marcus reaching out, I’d be perfectly fine right now. Finished with my day and on my way home instead of on my way to the emergency room.
* * *
By the time we reach the hospital, Caleb basically carries me in. We only have to wait about fifteen minutes before we get a room, and then they’re taking my vitals and asking for details about what happened.
