Page 66 of 4 Hints You Love Your Best Friend

She’s not moving. She’s utterly limp as I brush the hair from her forehead, trying to assess her injuries without jostling her body. There’s blood. A red gash on her shin that has sandpaper scraping down my throat. She hasn’t moved. Not a blink or a moan. “Fuck.”

I fumble for my phone, my heart hurtling off a cliff. I clamp my jaw, start dialing for an ambulance. She groans before I finish.

“Jolene, baby.” I drop my phone and brush my hand over her cheek. “Where does it hurt? Can you move?”

She adjusts her body and winces. “My back.”

“You hurt your back?”

“I think someone is stabbing it with a hot poker.”

“A flat person is stuck under your back, jabbing it with a hot poker?” My joke comes out half croaked with relief, but she hit her head when she fell. Passing out isn’t good.

“It’s either a flat person,” she says on a strained breath, “or my pride dislodged from my body on my way down and is intent on drilling a hole through my spine.”

“If you were being attacked by your pride, Jolene, you’d be in a coma right now. And we’re going to the hospital.”

I help her to sitting. She sways and presses her hand to her forehead. “I’m fine. No hospital. And are you implying that my pride is strong enough to kill me?”

“I’m stating that you’re often stubborn and willful. Headstrong, like a feisty Chihuahua who’d rather chase a squirrel than stop for traffic. Or in this case, go to the hospital.”

“Now I’m a dog?”

I’m not sure how we started bantering after that horrible argument and her fall, but I latch on to the familiar jousting, hoping it distracts her from her pain. “You’re a cute but determined dog, who’s choosing getting hit by a car over caution.”

“Are you always this sweet when your friends have near-death experiences?”

“I am when they need medical care. The hospital is happening, Jo.”

“Bossy,” she mumbles.

“Worried,” I counter. “You hit your head hard enough to knock yourself out. And you’re bleeding.”

I place my hand on her ankle, below the cut on her shin. She stares at the blood like she’s surprised it’s there. “It’s not that bad,” she says.

“What’s your name?” I ask, steadying my other hand on her back.

“Is this a trick question?”

“Head injuries are no joke.”

“Jolene Cynthia Daniels,” she says, dragging out each syllable.

I almost smile at her defiant nature. “Where are you right now?”

She stares at me with pursed lips. “In my apartment, because you’re here when you shouldn’t be, at too-late o’clock, because you’re working yourself to death so you can get me out of your house as quickly as possible.”

Blunt as ever and hitting me where it hurts. “Definitely a Chihuahua, but with rabies.”

“I’m vicious now?”

“Terrifying.”

Except I’m the scared one. My heart hasn’t recovered from seeing her fall, watching her black out. I lead her toward the door, but she’s hunched and her steps are stiff. “I’m gonna pick you up, carry you to the car,” I say.

“I can walk fine.” But she tenses and hisses out a breath, proving herself wrong.

“Denial doesn’t become you, Jolene.”

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