Page 7 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
The hospital’s waiting room is pretty holiday-centric too, which is a welcome change from the completely undecorated lake house. After all, my parents weren’t expecting anyone to be staying there until the new year.
So I’m in the waiting room now … waiting … waiting… as a lively version of “We Need a Little Christmas” leaks through overhead speakers. There’s an artificial tree in the corner loaded with twinkle lights and glittery ornaments. Poinsettias surround the check-in window, where a hulk of a man in blue scrubs sits sorting files.
Despite the holiday decor, he looks about as happy to be here on a Saturday as I am. Across from me a white-haired lady is knitting a scarf that looks long enough to stretch to the North Pole. When the song reaches the part about slicing up the fruitcake, my stomach growls. Loudly.
Oof.
I really wanted those brownies.
Craning my neck down the hallway off the lobby, I hope to spot a vending machine in case I’m stuck here for much longer. Maybe there are some down by the restrooms. I could go for a Snickers bar. Or some Goldfish crackers. Cheetos. Anything to keep me from gnawing on my fingernails if things get desperate.
After fifteen more minutes, I tryasking the hulk for any update on Three, but hospital employees aren’t allowed to share information with me since I’m not family.
Thanks a lot, HIPAA.
Okay, I didn’t actually mean that. I know privacy is a good thing. I’m just hungry. Plus a little guilty. And also worried. But that’s all.
I just have to hope the doctors determine Three is okay. Soon. Then I can get back to staying as far away from the man as I can for as long as we both shall live.
While the minutes drag on, though, my insides start to turn into sailor knots of concern. Did I really injure Three that badly? I feel like I’ve been here for the better part of a week, although it’s probably only been an hour. Tapping my foot, I will my brain to stop replaying old memories of Three and me on a loop.
Good memories.
Three and me on his uncle’s boat, cruising Abie Lake at sunset.
Three and me building castles on the sand at the Beachfront Inn.
Three and me at Abie Park with a band covering songs from the early 2000s. I’d packed us a picnic that afternoon, and he’d brought along cornhole and a Frisbee. Ford was there too, cracking jokes, singing along.
We used to be friends, Ford and I. Still, being friends with Three’s cousins shouldn’t matter. I don’twantto want Three anymore. I handed him my whole heart, and he threw all four chambers of it back in my face. So recalling the good times with him is dangerous. And focusing onthe endof us doesn’t make these guilt pangs feel any better, either.
When I flash back to him telling me he was never “looking for something serious” a giant, gaping pit opens up inside me. So now I’m worried and hungryandpit-y.
Bristol’s voice suddenly sounds in my head.Why on earth do you still care about this guy?
What I need is a distraction.
Turning to the plexiglass display of medical pamphlets beside my chair, I grab the one in the first slot. Some casual reading should do the trick. Maybe I’ll learn about something useful—like all the vitamins and supplements in Betty Crocker fudge brownies. Except the pamphlet in my hand is titled “You and Your Erectile Dysfunction.”
No thank you very much, sir.
I quickly stick the pamphlet back into its slot, but the next one, unfortunately, spells out advice for “Living with Hepatitis B.”
Yikes. What’s going on here in Northampton?
Shoving that one back too, I snatch up the third pamphlet. The words “Perimenopause and Me” are stamped above a middle-aged woman grinning at the camera like menopause will be the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to her. But before I can ditch this last pamphlet, a low voice rumbles above my head.
“Sara. You’re still here?” I glance up and there’s Ford, looming over me and my perimenopause pamphlet. Are the man’s running shoes made of marshmallows? How come I didn’t hear him coming?
“Oh, hello, Ford.” I scramble to push the evidence into my purse. Who knows? Maybe he didn’t notice the subject matter.
He arches a brow. High. “Studying up on what to expect in your golden years?”
Yep. He totally noticed.
“Never hurts to be prepared,” I stammer, ignoring the heat in my cheeks. “How’s Three?”
Ford’s brow dips, and he runs a hand over his chin. “Well, the blast from that fire extinguisher really did a number on him. Then he hit his head on the way down. Took a few stitches. The doc says he’s definitely concussed.”
