Page 30 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He turned to me with a look that could have killed houseplants. “Absolutely not.”
“Worth a shot.”
The silence settled again, not quite hostile now, just thick with unasked questions.
“Hey,” I said, lowering my voice. “Thanks. For all this. Seriously. I know I’m… a lot. But you didn’t have to help.”
Miles looked at me for a moment, then sighed. “I wasn’t about to let someone bleed out in front of me. Even if that someone is you.”
“You say that like I’m a global catastrophe,” I remarked.
“You said it, not me.”
Soon, a nurse called my name. I stood or tried to and nearly face-planted.
“Alright,” Miles said, springing to action. “Come on, hop along.”
He helped me over to the nurse, who led us down a hallway to an exam room. Miles stayed in the waiting area, probably disinfecting his entire soul with mental Clorox.
A doctor came in—Dr. Moretti, calm eyes, steady hands, and zero interest in my filmography. She examined my foot and nodded.
“You’re going to need about seven stitches. The laceration is clean but deep. We’ll numb it, stitch it, bandage it, and send you home with crutches and instructions.”
“Will I live?”
She smiled. “If you stay off it. No sand, no beach, and try to keep pressure off of it for a week. Keep it clean and change the bandage daily. Come back in ten days and we’ll remove the stitches.”
“So basically, no fun.” I sighed.
“Precisely.”
The numbing shot hurt more than the injury, but I gritted my teeth like a champ. Twenty minutes later, stitched and bandaged, I staggered out on crutches with a paper bag of gauze, instructions, and a bottle of extra-strength ibuprofen.
Miles was standing when I returned.
“They said you’re good to go?” he asked.
“As good as a one-legged beach bum can be. Want to carry me over the threshold like a groom?”
He rolled his eyes but took the paper bag and headed toward the exit.
“You’re really committed to this whole reluctant knight-in-shining-Lululemon role, huh?”
“You live next door,” he muttered. “It’s on my way.”
“Touching. Truly.”
The drive back was less awkward this time. I fiddled with the air conditioning, Miles didn’t yell at me, and I even caught him glancing over once, probably to make sure I hadn’t passed out from blood loss or cracked open a Gatorade in his leather interior.
We pulled into the driveway. My house—a modern beast of questionable taste and even more dubious house guests—loomed beside his polished blue-shingled beach home he was renting, like an overcompensating frat bro next to a boutique spa.
He got out and came around to help me. I leaned on the crutches and winced.
“Thanks again,” I said, quieter this time. “For real. I owe you.”
He hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. “Try not to bleed in the neighborhood again. Wouldn’t want to lower the property values.”
And with that, he turned and walked back to his house, not looking back once.
