Page 87 of About That Night

“Absolutely.”

I lift and tug until I hear his shoulder pop back into place. “There. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He gives a tentative lift of his arm. “It does feel better.”

“Don’t move it. We need to put it in a sling and get you some ibuprofen. Why were you limping?”

With his left hand, he lifts the bottom of his jeans. “I think my ankle might be fucked up.”

It doesn’t take a professional to see his ankle is massively swollen. “Oh no. We need to take you for an X-ray. What did you land on when you got thrown through the air?”

“That’s a little dramatic,” he protests. “It was more like a tap and a stumble.”

My nerves say otherwise. I can’t shake the feeling that I might throw up at any given moment. “No, it wasn’t. I saw you go flying.”

He reaches out and takes my hand in his. “I landed on my side and mostly my shoulder because I turned to brace myself at impact and to protect my head. I’m a little beat up, but I’m fine. This isn’t because of any curse. Don’t do that to yourself. I can see the little worry wheels turning in your head.”

“It’s exactly because of a curse. I refuse to talk about this right now though. We need to get you to the ER. I need to know you’re okay.” I sound clipped and unpleasant.

I’m not handling this well at all. I should be reassuring him. I should be loving and gentle and smoothing his hair back. Yet I’m tense from trying to hold it together because all I can think about is that he could have died, and it would be my fault.

The tears are threatening, but I can’t do that right now. I can’t cry when Hank needs medical care.

I take a shuddering breath as he shoves himself out of the chair with his good hand.

“Normally I wouldn’t even bother going to the ER, but I think you need me to,” he says.

“Yes, I do,” I say firmly.

Once he’s in my car, I go back into the house, grab my purse, and lock the front door. The sickening feeling in my gut hasn’t gone away.

Hank has his eyes closed and he’s leaning on the passenger window.

He’s obviously in more pain than he’s willing to admit.

He immediately opens his eyes. “Don’t do this.”

“Do what?” I ask as I start the car.

“Pull away from me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I know exactly what he’s talking about. I can’t help it. I can’t stop it. My heart feels frozen with fear.

Throwing my car in reverse, I hit the gas too hard and cut the wheel too soon. The tire is on the grass, and I almost take out my mailbox.

“Slow down there, Nascar. Saving two minutes won’t matter.”

His voice isn’t censorious at all. He sounds amused.

But I burst into tears.

“Woah, woah. I’m kidding,” he says, instantly sitting up straighter. “Chastity, come on, don’t do that, sweetheart. Please?”

He’s pleading with me to stop crying, but nothing can stem the flow of tears I’ve been holding back. The tears don’t stop until I pull into the parking lot of the ER and whip into a spot faster than I should or intend to. We jerk forward when I brake. Hank has stayed silent and let me cry, though he looks like he would prefer to be under a tire again rather than have to listen to me.

“I’m going to go get someone to take you in,” I tell him, opening my car door.

“I can walk.”

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