Page 18 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Speaking of guilt, it’s time I text Ford back and let him off the hook.
Me
I’m going to fill my family in on what’s happening since you’re all getting on the plane now, and it will be too late for them to change course. Thanks for taking one for the team until now. Go have a blast for both of us. Love you too, man.
I hit send, then tackle the harder task: texting the OriginalFuller House thread to tell them the truth. And I need to do that before the next round of pain meds kicks in.
One ripped-off Band-Aid coming up.
Me
Hey, fam. I have some news, part of which you may have already figured out. First of all, please believe me when I tell you I’m totally safe, but I won’t be flying to LA with you or taking the Christmas cruise.
I had a bit of an accident earlier today that resulted in a concussion. Don’t worry about me. I’m in good hands. I’m just not allowed to fly per doctor’s orders. And I didn’t want any of you to miss out on the holiday fun. So promise to have the best time ever, and I’ll celebrate with you in the New Year. Until then, mele kalikimaka.
PS: In case anyone’s thinking about catching a return flight when you land at LAX, don’t. I’m not at home, and you won’t be able to find me where I’m staying.
PSS: Don’t be mad at Ford for temporarily covering for me. He’s the best. I’m the jerk. That is all.
Love you all times Three. (See what I did there?) Aloha.
As I hit send on the final text, I start to feel a bit of pain-med wooziness descend upon my brain again. That’s bad enough. But to be honest, knowing Sara Hathaway will be watching over me in bed all night is also taking an unhealthy toll on my heart rate.
So I power off my phone, flip it face down on the nightstand, and climb under the quilt. If I wait to see who, what, when, or where someone in my family is replying to me, I’ll never get any sleep.
Chapter Eight
Sara
The first time I check on Three, I find him lying on his side, head pressed into a soft down pillow. I click the nightstand lamp on, then jostle his shoulder—gently to begin with—then a bit more forcefully when he doesn’t show signs of stirring.
“Three. Time to wake up.” Even through the cotton of his T-shirt, his body feels warm. And I’m not intentionally gawking at the swell of his biceps, but the lamplight’s illuminating his muscles, and it’s awfully hard not to peek.
He’s got one leg thrown free from the quilt, hooked around the top of it, so it’s a good thing he’s wearing fitted joggers. I remember Three’s calves when he was just barely nineteen. I can only imagine his bare full-on man-calves now.
When a low hum sounds in the back of his throat, my pulse picks up, and I start to wonder what he’s dreaming about. I, myself, spent the last two hours reliving past memories while cleaning up present smoke damage. For all I know, Three could be doing the exact same thing.
Dreaming about our past, I mean, not cleaning up smoky walls.
Stop it, Sara. This is not a romantic moment. This is a medical situationyoucaused.
“Come on, Three.” I shake him again. His face looks so sweet and peaceful, I really hate to wake him. Then again, the man did cause me plenty of pain at one point in my life. Maybe I don’thaveto be quite so gentle with him now.
When I give him one more jiggle, he drags his leg back under the quilt and lets out a long groan. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles. The words are rusty with sleep, and I glance around the room, as if there might be someone else in here for him to be apologizing too.
He couldn’t possibly have read my mind, could he?
“What did you say?”
“So sorry,” he moans again.
I swallow hard, pushing aside the twinge in my stomach. Honestly, I would’ve given anything for this kind of apology from Three a decade ago. But the last thing I want is for him to think I’m still hurting over our breakup now.
“Three!” I whisper-hiss.
“Don’t tell her,” he mutters.
“Tell who what?” More jostling from me.
