Page 32 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“No,” I choke out, panic rising in my throat. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
10
* * *
HOLT
“Are you okay?”
“I’m all right,” Eden says from beside me.
Her voice sounds slightly high-pitched, and I can tell she’s more affected than she initially let on by this allergic reaction in the middle of the first game. But as the guy in charge of taking care of her, this is all in a night’s work.
I would do anything to make sure she’s safe—including rushing her to the nearest emergency room at nine o’clock on a Thursday night. She was so adamant at first that she was fine. But her tongue started to swell, and she admitted her throat was itchy.
Les and Gretchen helped me talk her into going to the ER out of an abundance of caution. And while she wasn’t initially happy with the idea, Eden finally agreed during the first intermission. I know she doesn’t want to miss the game, or cause any more of a commotion than she already has, but her health and safety will always come first.
When I give her another look, she waves me off. “Seriously. I’ll be fine.”
“What’s your favorite kind of music?” I ask.
Eden taps her knee nervously in the passenger seat beside me. “I don’t care. Just put anything on.”
I look over and give her a smirk. “I’m just trying to distract you, trying to keep you talking.”
She meets my eyes with a soft look. “Oh, right. Okay. I guess I’ll play along.”
“Perfect. Favorite music?” I ask again.
“Rock,” she says, her eyebrows pushing together. “Classic or grunge. Nineties, preferably. It’s such an underrated decade in terms of music.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. I mean, the Smashing Pumpkins. Fuel. Oasis. Nirvana.”
I nod. “I went through a big Incubus phase.”
She laughs. “You?”
It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh since this whole ordeal began. And I really like the sound of it.
“I like nineties too.” I turn the radio on, and since it’s connected to my Bluetooth playlist, I scroll through the list of bands until I land on Incubus. “This okay?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
I select the song “Drive” and press PLAY.
She looks over at me and smiles. Between that gorgeous smile that I don’t deserve, and the familiar lyrics now coming from the speakers, there’s a sudden ache in my chest.
Whatever tomorrow brings . . . I’ll be there with open arms and open eyes.
Eden taps her knee along with the rhythm, seemingly unaware of what these words mean to me.
What I don’t tell her is that the song “Wish You Were Here” was one I played on constant repeat after she bolted from my bed and my life. But I’m not brave enough to play it for her now.
When the next song comes on, “Pardon Me,” the lyrics grab me by the throat the same way they did back then, deep in the despair of letting a girl like Eden slip through my fingers and right into the arms of a colossal dickwad. Namely, Alex Braun. That was what killed me. I knew I wasn’t good enough for her. But a douchebag like him supposedly was?
Soon, those heartfelt lyrics were replaced by angrier ones, and bands like Rage Against the Machine took over my playlist.
It’s quiet in my car, and I’m aware of every little thing. The way Eden’s petite frame fits into the seat beside mine. Her fingers between her knees. The floral scent on her skin. The way the air seems charged between us.
“How are you feeling? We’re almost there.”
“I’ll be fine. Throat feels a little scratchy.”
“Hang in there for me.” I place my hand on her knee and give it a reassuring squeeze. I wish I wasn’t, but I’m all too aware of how warm her skin feels through her jeans, and how long it’s been since I’ve touched her.
Pulling my hand away, I clear my throat. Eden seems unaffected, staring straight ahead out the windshield.
Get it together, Rossi.
When we arrive at the hospital, the check-in process is brief, and then we’re waiting together in the exam room. Eden doesn’t say much. She just stares at a poster of a thyroid gland on the wall. I have no idea what she’s thinking, and even less of a clue about what to say to her.
It doesn’t take long for them to administer an injection of epinephrine. I hold her hand, and when the nurse assumes I’m her boyfriend, neither Eden nor I correct her. After being given a packet of antihistamines to take home for the hives on her chest, Eden signs some paperwork, and then we’re strolling back through the exit less than an hour later.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m so sorry about all of this. What a mess.” She shakes her head, looking down at her feet.
Not wanting her to feel ashamed, I touch her shoulders, turning her body toward mine in the parking lot. “Hey. This isn’t your fault.”
