Page 48 of Every Chance After

“Tripp Grady Tripp,” she says, her voice weak and her eyes squinting. “Aren’t you an early bird?”

“What’s wrong?”

Her delicate fingers wave me off as she leans against the doorjamb. “Headache. That’s all. Didn’t sleep much.”

“Pain level?”

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “With the headache, I’d say eight. I’ve taken my pills.”

“Did you eat?”

She shakes her head, but the action pains her. “Too nauseous to eat.”

“When did the headache start?”

“I don’t know. Around midnight. It’s been worse than the rest, if you can believe it.”

“This is an example of you being too nice. You should’ve called me.”

She blanches at my tone. “Why? What would you have done? It’s a headache.”

I edge by her, bringing us both inside. I rest my palm against her forehead, but my hands are too cold to tell if she has a fever.

“I checked. It’s normal,” she says.

Of course, she’s checked, Grady. She’s an adult with common sense. Try not to be condescending.

I take her wrist between my fingers and eye my watch. Her heart rate is elevated but not racing.

“Any unusual swelling or heat around your wound sites?”

“I think it looks normal.”

“Want me to look? I’m a doctor.”

She hesitates in a mental debate that ends with a simple nod. She lifts her pajama top, but unable to see her wounds clearly, I drop to my knees and slowly tug her loose-fitting pants down to her hip line just over her panties. Goosebumps appear under my fingers as I touch her.

“Cold hands. Sorry.”

She smirks, her eyes squinted. “It’s okay.”

Her pale, freckled skin is patched by internal stitches, pinching her skin together. Scabs reveal typical healing—no redness or inflammation.

The bruise on her side brings a “Fucking hell” out of me. I edge to her left, ogling the enormous contusion.

“Giant Jelly,” she breathes out. “Told you.”

It looks as if she received a terrible tattoo—all blacks and blues, stringing down her hip from a large round knob that starts under her left arm. Touching it causes more goosebumps, but I run my fingers over it anyway to test the temperature and swelling. Again, nothing stands out except how painful it looks.

Her hands fall to my shoulders, bracing herself like she can’t stand this long. I hold her at her hips for extra support, and she doesn’t mind my grip, the way she presses into me.

“Have you been icing this?”

“Yep, every three hours or so.”

I ease her clothes back to their appropriate places as tenderly as I can.

“Thanks, doc. But sometimes a headache is just a headache,” she says, looking woozy.

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