Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
He stumbles, and I weave our way to the door.
When we get outside, he tries to suck in a deep breath, but again, it sounds like an elderly person trying to suck a thick milkshake through a too-small straw. At first we start toward my SUV, but then I think better of it. If he’s reacting to Prince Francis, putting him in a car loaded with cat dander and cat fur is a bad idea.
“We should probably take your car.” We stop in front of his black Tesla. I tip my head up. “I’ve never been in an accident before. I promise I’m a safe driver, and I will take care of your steel baby, but I’d really like it if you survived today.” Especially since it seems my original disdain for him wasn’t quite so necessary. “Where are your keys?”
He inhales another labored breath and sags against me. I shift so he’s leaning on his car and pat his hip, over his pocket. I can feel the outline of his keys. I don’t ask permission, and jam my hand in there.
I find my face mashed into his side and my boob pressed against his ribs as I feel around for the key ring. I briefly graze something squishy and he grunts, but I manage to hook the keys with my pinkie. “Got em!” I shout into his side, then yank my hand free.
“Don’t.” Gasp. “Need.” Wheeze. “Them.” He opens the passenger door.
Well, that would have been good to know before I touched the head of his penis through the pocket of his pants. I’m not going to address the penis-elephant, though.
Ever.
I help him into the passenger seat, close the door, rush around the hood, and launch myself into the driver’s side. I’m very grateful that Miles backed in, so all I have to do is buckle up, push a button, and put the car in drive.
It only takes seven minutes to get to the hospital, although I did run a lot of stale yellows to make it happen. I pull into the emergency parking and get him inside. His wheezing has lessened slightly since we left the house, which I’m taking as a good sign, but his eyes are red and puffy, and so are his lips. They’re usually quite full, but right now they look like they’ve been stung by a hive of bees.
I don’t want to leave him alone in the emergency room, but the nurse assures me they’re taking care of him, and I have to park the car so it doesn’t end up getting towed. I return a few minutes later, but he’s no longer sitting in intake. I rush up to the nurse’s station, frantic all over again. Flashes of memory from my teen years flicker through my mind and I shove them down. This isn’t the same. But still, they come, and I can’t help the question that never seems to go away, no matter how much time passes. If I’d found my dad sooner, would we have gotten him to the hospital in time? Maybe he would still be here and there wouldn’t be a huge hole in our family that belongs to him.
“Miss? Can I help you?”
I shake my head, pulling myself out of the memories and back into the present. “Oh. Yes. There was a man. Miles Thorn. I brought him in. He was in that wheelchair and now he’s not.” I point to the empty chair, then wring my hands.
She clicks on her keyboard for a few seconds that feel more like hours. “Oh yes, let me take you to him.” She rolls back her chair.
“Is he okay?”
“The doctors are with him now.”
I notice she doesn’t answer the question directly, and my panic ratchets up a notch or two.
I don’t really know Miles, not well, apart from the messages we’ve exchanged over the past week. But the conversation today was a lot less hostile on both sides, and I would like to have another one of those with him. I’m beginning to think he’s someone I might like to know. And the possibility that he may not be okay freaks me out. Logically, I’m aware that I’m in fatalist mode, and that I’m probably blowing this out of proportion, but until I see he’s okay, I don’t think I’m going to be able to calm myself down.
“You did the right thing by bringing Miles to the emergency room,” the nurse reassures me. She pulls back a curtain and there lies Miles, lips swollen, face blotchy, hooked up to machines, a needle in the back of his hand.
One of the doctors injects something into the drip bag. “You’ll be sleepy after this. We’ll monitor you for a few hours to make sure you’re okay before we give you the all-clear.”
“Okay,” Miles rasps, his gaze darting to me. “Hey.”