Page 8 of Nothing To Lose
Tim leaves and comes back with a stack of folded linens that turn out to be scrubs. "They'll be a bit big on you, but it's better than having to wear the hospital gown out since your clothes were trashed during your accident. Do you need help dressing, or should I leave you two to…?"
"Oh. We're not, um—he's not my—" I'm at a loss for words. My cheeks are inexplicably hot. "We don't know each other. He found me. Like this," I say, gesturing to my overall messy state. Technically, he found me in a lot worse condition, albeit fully clothed, but Tim doesn't need to know the entire story. I'm tired of telling it, anyway.
"My goodness, I'm so sorry. I just assumed," Tim says. He looks back at Isaac. "How nice of you to stay all this time for someone you don't even know."
Tim isn't the first person to praise Isaac for being a good Samaritan, though Isaac doesn't seem to appreciate it. He seems a bit angry. But, it's better than them thinking he was the one that did this to me. He’s been questioned more than once, and each time he's held his breath like he was trying to hold himself back from exploding.
"So, do you have someone else coming to pick you up, then? Is there anyone at home? You're going to need someone around for the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours."
"W-what?"
"Mmhmm.You need rest and supervision to make sure you don't have any dizzy spells. Can't have you making things worse by knocking your head again," he jokes, like I had a slip and fall accident and that’s how I got here. "I'll help you get dressed, then you can make some calls. You're gonna want to limit screen time, even your phone, as much as possible, but making a call here and there is okay."
"I don't have my phone, but I’ll be fine once I get home. I can get a cab or something, right?” They’re looking at me expectantly, so I add, “I’ll have someone there."
It’s a lie. I don't have anyone to call, really. I don’t have a lot of friends outside my study group or online. I’ve had lunch with Sam a few times, but I don’t think we’re good enough friends that I could ask him to stay over for a few days. I definitely wouldn’t feel comfortable asking to stay at his place. I’m pretty sure he lives in the dorms, although I can’t remember him saying if he has a roommate or not.
More than that, I don’t want anyone to see me like this. I don’t know how I’ll avoid it, but there would be too many questions. And I don’t want it getting back to my father, of all people.
Do I even want to go back to my apartment? Guy knows where I live. Would he try anything? I really don’t want to go home, but what are my choices?
Maybe I can tell them I'm going home, then get a hotel for a few days until this is easier to cover up? The throbbing in my temples increases.Ugh, thinking hurts.
"I've got him."
Isaac's deep voice cuts through my panic.What did he say?
"I'll make sure he gets home," he clarifies.
That's enough for the staff at the hospital. An hour later, I'm wheeled out the front door of the emergency room.
2
ISAAC
What was I thinking?
I don't know. I have no idea what convinced me it was a good idea to open my big mouth and offer to get Tyler home. It felt like the right thing to do in the moment. He looked so helpless, exhausted, and panicked. I've had enough concussions to know how mottled your brain can get when you start overthinking. Besides, after what he's been through, taking him home is the least I can do to help him out.
I'll just get him home, and maybe get his number so I can check in on him later. That's all.
I pull my beat-up old truck around to the front entrance and jump out to help Tyler get in. As Tim pushes him through the doors, he winces and clenches his eyes shut. It's bright out here, and he probably has a killer headache. Swiping a pair of sunglasses off my dash, I jog over to where they're waiting. I frown down at Tyler in the wheelchair. He looks small and tired. He's holding a hospital blanket around his shoulders because he doesn't have a coat with him.Where was his coat?
I shrug out of my hoodie, then pull it over his head. While he's pushing his arms into the sweater, I bend down and slide the sunglasses up the bridge of Tyler's nose, careful not to disturb the swelling or bruising around his cheek and eye. Then, for good measure, I tug my ball cap over his head.
He angles his head and blinks up at me with his one good eye. "Thanks," he says, surprised, like the kindness is unexpected.Damn, he’s cute.
I think about what my sister has told me before about how I come off broody and mean. I'm not mean, I just have a really effective resting bitch face, as Chels likes to call it. It takes effort for me to compose my features into a semblance of something pleasant, but when I do, Tyler seems even more unsure, standing from the wheelchair and walking beside me towards the truck. I'm not sure which he's more wary of—me or the truck.
This was a bad idea.
"It's kind of high off the ground, so I'm just gonna lift you in, yeah?"
"I can do it," he says, and I step back to give him some space.
He tries to lift his right leg, then puts it down, probably remembering the stitches along the back of his thigh. Switching feet, he steps up onto the running board and hoists himself up, using the door and handle for leverage. To avoid using his right leg, he has to take a second step, but his foot gets caught on the hem of the too-large scrub pants the hospital gave him, and he slips. Instinctively, my hands come up to help, settling on his narrow waist to support him while he rights his footing. It takes everything in me not to pick him up, set him in the seat, and buckle him in. Not because I think he's helpless—becauseIfeel helpless. And I want to do anything to help him feel safe right now. I hold back, letting him maneuver his way into the cab.
Tim hands me a small bag of Tyler's ruined clothing and personal items, telling me his prescriptions and discharge instructions are all inside. He wishes us well, waves to Tyler, and heads back inside.
