Page 33 of Bite Your Tongue

Once I position Marlin on the ground and I hear the man explaining the situation to the operator, I check his pulse, sighing in relief that he still has one, before putting my ear to his mouth to check for breathing. I’m almost positive this man had a stroke, but he’ll need to go to the hospital to find out for sure. Keeping his head on my lap, I reach my hand up to his wife, and when she takes it, I give hers a squeeze.

“The ambulance will be here soon. The hospital is right down the street and has the best doctors,” I try to reassure her, though I’m sure it doesn’t help calm her down as she stares down at her husband, collapsed on the brick sidewalk.

She doesn’t answer, but I keep hold of her hand anyway.

With everything that I am, I am a nurse. Not just in the four walls of the hospital, but everywhere else too. It’s what makes me … me.

“What are you all squirrelly about?” Smith says, frowning at me over his beer.

I quickly flip my phone over and take a sip of my water. “I’m not. I’m just sitting here, waiting for my mozzarella sticks to come out,”

“Ooh, did someone say mozzarella sticks?” Logan says, plopping down right beside me. “I love me some mozzarella sticks, man. Good choice.”

Right then, the waitress slides my appetizer to me before asking Logan what he wants to order, and as soon as he’s done, he reaches for my basket. I narrow my eyes at him, knowing that in Logan’s mind, we’re all sharing.

“Dude, you just ordered your own. Why are you eating mine?”

“Because mine aren’t out yet,” he says, shrugging and dipping the stick in the marinara. “I’ll replace the ones I eat when mine come out. Maybe.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “But if I catch you double-dipping, I’ll break your fingers.”

“Touchy tonight, aren’t you, Cambridge?” he teases, nudging my side.

“Squirrelly, acting weird, and fucking touchy,” Smith says, keeping his eyes on mine. “And checking your phone every thirty seconds for whoever the fuck is so important to send you a text back.”

Keeping my hands planted so that I don’t have the sudden urge to see if Saylor texted me, I attempt to shoot him a grin. “I am not being weird. Don’t be jealous, Smithy. You know you’re my number one.”

He rolls his eyes at me and mutters something under his breath. I’m thankful when Logan leaves my appetizer alone and starts chatting with Smith about our next game so that Smith doesn’t ask me anything else.

In Florida, I told him I had a thing for his sister, and he wasn’t all that happy. I don’t want to keep things from him, but thanks to Saylor, we’re just friends anyway, so what does it matter if I tell her brother the truth?

The truth being … I sent his sister a corny postcard. She sent me a message, calling me a creeper, and at first, I thought she was kidding, but then she started ignoring me.

And has continued to for the last two hours.

Maybe I shouldn’t have sent her a postcard, but I had seen it at the store the other day and just impulsively bought it. I didn’t write anything inappropriate or deep on the card, but maybe our nonexistent rule book on being friends says that things like sending postcards aren’t allowed. I mean, fuck if I know. She’s a complicated human.

Just another reason why I can’t pull away.

Even though I want to check my phone again, I don’t. Instead, I attempt to pretend like I care about what my best friends are talking about, even though all I can do is worry like a little bitch that I made Saylor uncomfortable. All because she sent me a message and now is ignoring me.

With any other chick, I wouldn’t give a fuck. Hell, I would have never even sent them a postcard to begin with.

Little by little, she’s fucking me all up.

I lie in my bed like the pathetic, whipped-ass man I am these days and stare at my ceiling. I fucked my hand in the shower with thoughts of Saylor sucking my cock, and even that didn’t make me feel better. I don’t recognize this person I’ve become. We’ve barely spent any time together. We’ve fucked a few times. This is insane, and I know that. Yet here I am, being a loser.

My phone buzzes, and I don’t even attempt to be too cool and not grab it instantly. When I see Saylor’s name, my chest does this strange warming thing, and I open the message, cringing a bit when I take in the four ones I sent earlier, all apologizing if the postcard was too weird.

Saylor: Is it a good time to call?

Within seconds, I’m FaceTiming her, now coming off as whipped as the fucking meringue on top of my grandmother’s pie.

Her beautiful face appears on the screen. Her hair is in a messy bun piled on the top of her head, and she doesn’t have an ounce of makeup on her face.

“I said call, loser. Not FaceTime,” she teases me, the corner of her lips turning up. “Your hair looks wet. Were you in the shower?”

“Yeah, I had to fuck my hand so that I could go to sleep,” I say smugly, watching her throat suddenly swallow roughly.

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