Page 88 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
Also good news: Three demonstrated definite cognitive improvement during his checkup, and his stitches are healing nicely. Thanks to frequent bandage changes and all the antiseptic ointment, the doctor saw no sign of infection around either of his injuries. In fact the bump on his forehead is mostly hidden now under that mop of auburn hair. But that’s where the good news ends.
Cue all the steering-wheel clenching.
The first bad news: when Three recounted our schedule over the past few days, the doctor promptly scolded us for being too active. Which was basically like scolding me. Three’s the one withthe concussion, after all. He’s arguably not capable of making the best decisions for himself. I’m the one in charge, and I didn’t do the best job I could for him.
Unacceptable.
The second piece of bad news was something we already expected thanks to Nurse Mary: Three isn’t allowed to fly yet because the altitude could trigger possible cranial swelling or strokes. This means no joining his family in Hawaii for the rest of their vacation.
The final bad news we only learned today: Three still isn’t safe to drive himself around. Why? Because of potential seizures or residual brain fog. Apparently the level of risk can’t be determined during a quick appointment. But the doctor said Three may still be under the influence of his concussion.
This little tidbit changes everything in more than one important way.
If I leave Abieville today, Three will be stranded over Christmas without being able to drive himself anywhere. And I already didn’t take good enough care of him the past few days.
Unacceptable.
Also—at the risk of continued selfishness—I can’t help questioning everything Three has said and done over the past few days. With regards to me, specifically. The doctor saidstillunder the influence.
I hadn’t even considered the implications.
Were our kisses based on real emotion, or was his mind too blurry to know any better? Was his confession about what happened with my parents ten years ago accurate, or is he simply remembering false rationalizations?
None of the answers are reassuring.
Releasing my grip on the wheel, I glance out the window just as Three emerges from the sliding doors. There’s a new bounce in his step, and he smiles as he heads toward my car. When he hops in the passenger seat, I crank the heat to fight the blast of cold air.
“Thanksfor waiting,” he says.
“No problem.” I pull away from the curb, wishing I could channel his hopefulness.
Trust yourself, Sara.
That’s what Bristol told me to do, and I was all set to follow her advice. But what if Three’s suggestion that he might be open to a second chance with us was just his concussion talking?
What if we were just concussion-kissing in the storage room?
ARGH!
“I thought you’d be happier about being off the hook,” Three says. He’s staring out the window at the snowbanks plowed onto the side of the road. Sunlight glints off the whiteness. It would be magical if I weren’t feeling so conflicted.
“Who says I’m not happy?”
“Hmm.” His mouth tips into a smirk. “The groan that just came out of you was my first clue.”
Oops. I must have let thatarghslip out loud. “I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired.”
“From lying awake all night thinking?”
“Something like that.” I offer up a little nod, while keeping my focus on the road.
“You know, experts say the car is a perfect place to have difficult conversations, because you can just look straight ahead instead of facing the person you’re with.”
I tip my chin. “I’ve heard that too.”
“So maybe we should take this chance to talk things out before you drop me off at home.”
“We can.” I shrug. “Except I’m not dropping you off. I’m taking you back to the lake house with me.”
