I flick my
enamored gaze back onto the black-and-white tiles, cheeks on fire. Crap!
He probably thinks I’m like the floozies from earlier, stupefied by a cute
smile and well-lined beard.
And to make it
worse, he cackles, head falling forward, having a few strands of his hair fall
onto his forehead.
I snort, hating
I’ve become his amusement today.
There’s
cautiousness in his movement when he drags his hands from his pockets and
approaches me. “Let me help you,” he drones. His reach is precarious, but when
he latches onto my waist, his grasp is steady. I’m ambushed by a plethora of
sensations from the contact; my heart stutters and my breaths rush from my lungs
as he lifts me off the bed.
“Thanks,” I
mutter, meeting his eyes. Which, is something I’ve been trying to avoid since I
had passed out.
They take me
in, and the hazel-brown swirls. I stare in awe as liquid emerald blends with
milk chocolate.
He blinks and
backs away, releasing his hold. I didn’t notice how aware I was of his hands
being on me until they fall away, an immersing sense of comfort and warmth
going with them.
“Let’s go. It’s
getting late; you need to get home.” His rigid, deepened voice differs from the
discerning one he used only moments ago.
“Um,” I mumble.
He lifts his
gaze and looks past my shoulder toward the doorway, eyes brown again.
My eyes narrow
and I point to his face. “That’s different.”
“I know,” he
says. “It’s also a pain in my ass.” He sweeps his hand toward the door.
Not wanting to
pry, I shrug and walk out of the room.
“Hi, Mrs.
Waturstrom,” I greet the woman behind the nurse’s desk. “I’m a little better,
but my head still hurts. May I have something for my headache that’ll tide me
over until I get home, please?”
“Of course,
Tracey. Nice to see you’re okay. I’ll give you a Tylenol for your pain and a
bottle of water. Wait there a moment,” she adds, turning away to her cabinet of
pain-relieving goodies. Our school nurse is a nice little lady whose smooth
skin and perfect posture is a compliment to her age. She says it is because her
late husband kept her young. He passed away a year or so ago, and it’s
noticeable his passing broke her heart. She lost the spring in her step. Now, she’s
the basic happy nurse, keeping a smile on and speaking with a slight hint of
excitement but it’s not from her heart. If it weren’t for the small,
tear-shaped scar under her right eye, she’d be flawless for her age.
I rest against
the counter. “Thank you.”
“Now, Tracey.
I’m not trying to meddle, but sometimes I can’t help myself.” Mrs. Waturstrom
examines the label of a pill bottle and continues, “Are you two dating?”
My eyes bulge.
I hurry to sober them, knowing he can see my expression with him only being a
foot away. “No, ma’am. I don’t even know him,” I hurry to say, wanting to clear
up any confusion. “There was an accident.”
“Oh!” she gasps as if my denial of our
involvement is unbelievable. “I’m sorry, dear. I thought, well, with the way he
carried you in here and his concern over you being well. That boy even fell
asleep in that hard chair, waiting for you to wake up.”
