Page 24 of Love and Other Risky Business

“Do you like her?” I ask.

My mother’s eyes narrow on me and she sighs again. “I do. She was so freaked out last night. She cares deeply for you.”

She loves me. I could see it in her eyes last night too. I could see everything.

“Did you find it?” The reason I asked my mom to dig through my lube and sex toy collection. I’d laugh about that, but I’m not in the mood and it would only make my headache worse.

She pulls a small red box out of her purse, holding it up. “We need to talk about this.”

I extend my hand and she reluctantly places the box in it. “I already asked her to marry me. She thought it was the drugs.” Itwasthe drugs—I was out of my mind. I think I even told her I’d retire. But wanting to marry her was real and I’m going to tell her how I feel and ask her again. We’ve been friends for long enough, and I don’t think a world exists where we wouldn’t be sexually compatible. We can date as long as she wants before I take her down the aisle, so long as she says yes.

Mom’s already shaking her head. “Oh, Timothy. Honey, no. Not like that. She said you’re just friends, you can’t…propose out of nowhere. From your hospital bed!”

“I love her.” Can’t she see? None of the rest of it matters.

“But you haven’t even—”

“I’m tired of waiting and getting my ass kicked by Jackie—”

My mother stiffens. “Who’s Jackie?”

“Jackie Chan.” Obviously.

We stare at each other for a long, long moment.

“Okay, honey,” she says, getting slowly to her feet, and taking a few steps toward the door. “You sit tight for a minute, I’m going to step out to find the nearest—Doctor! Perfect timing!” She grabs the doctor’s arm when she walks into the room, but releases it almost immediately. “Oh! I’m sorry. Um…he’s a little…confused.”

“I’m fine.” Apart from the massive headache. “My therapist had me name my unrequited love—”

“The old hippie on the beach?Thattherapist?” My mother puts her hands on her hips as she narrows her eyes at me and I immediately regret telling her about him.

“He’s qualified,” I protest. I mean, I think he is. He has a PhD from the School of Living an Awesome Fucking Life.

The doctor barely blinks, walking up to the bed to shine a light in my eyes before flipping through my chart.

My mother sighs, closing the door and rounding the bed. “I’m his mother.” She says it like the burden it is, staking her claim to stay in the room.

The doctor nods, still looking over my chart. “How does your head feel?” she asks me.

“Like someone drilled a hole in it,” I respond. My mother’s eyes widen at me—her way of full naming me without uttering a sound.

“Imagine that.” The doctor looks up at me as she puts the chart back. “You’re a stunt performer?” She turns to the laptop on her mobile workstation.

“Yeah. You’ve probably seen me in…” my voice trails off when she stares at me. She doesn’t give a fuck, but I do. “I’m good at my job.”

“Obviously not that good.” The doctor clicks through something on the laptop.

My phone isn’t close at hand or I’d show this doctor a few of the stunts I’ve done. I’m damn good at my job. One of the best. I will be the best one day.

The doctor reads something—possibly my medical history given how long she’s silent—before stating, “You need a new job.”

An anvil lands on my chest. “What?” I manage to choke out.

“You’ve had a couple of mild concussions in the past, and now a subdural hematoma. Maybe you could do stunt work for another twenty years and take a dozen more hits to the head and be fine, but if I were your insurance company, I wouldn’t bet on you.”

I open my mouth but the doctor is already onto my excuses and cuts me off.

“Maybe you’ll hit your head slipping in the shower, or doing something mundane, and yes, that could kill you too. It’s about managing your risks. No one expects you to wrap yourself in Bubble Wrap—”

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