Ignoring Kyle’s skeptical look, I say, “I’ll be back soon. Just keep things moving here.”
“Will do. Send me a text and lemme know what’s going on.”
I carry her to my truck, wondering what the hell I’m doing with every step, and carefully settle her in the passenger seat. Awkwardly, I strap the seatbelt around her.
“You don’t have to treat me like a baby,” she says when I start up the truck.
“I’m not.”
“Maybe I should go home…” she says, pressing her fingers into her temples. “Maybe I’m just tired. And I’ve had a bad sore throat. It could be the flu… or mono.”
Shit.
“I haven’t kissed anyone in a loooong time, though.” She leans her head back against the seat and closes her eyes. “In case you were wondering, yes, I’m a social loser.”
“I wasn’t. And you’re not. But I think it’s best to get you checked out. You passed out on the freakin’ sidewalk. You might’ve hit your head. You could have a concussion.” Suddenly, I’m channeling my mother. “Should we call the school and tell them you’re not going to be there?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “They won’t even notice I’m not there. They never do.”
The Monday-morning traffic sucks, forcing us to sit through every red light twice. Skylar becomes more alert during the drive, but she still looks eerily pale to me, especially with the sun glaring through the windows.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. “Did you eat this morning?”
“I never eat breakfast.”
I catch myself before I completely turn into my mother and tell her that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
I’m supposed to be cool. Badass. Her words, not mine.
By the time we get to the hospital, she tells me she’s feeling a bit better and can get out of the truck and walk without stumbling. That doesn’t stop me from walking her inside and waiting while she checks in.
“Thanks for driving me here,” she says, as we take seats in the waiting area far away from the other four people. “You can go. I’ll be fine now. I don’t want to mess up your whole day.”
“How are you going to get home?”
Her mouth quirks to the side. “I’ll text Megan later. I’m sure she’ll give me a ride back to my car.”
Rocking on my heels with my hands shoved in my front pockets, I stare around the room. Then at her, sitting in the faded-yellow plastic chair with her blue eyes wide with anxiety, rubbing her hand over the center of her chest. The printed ID bracelet seems huge circling her wrist. I never noticed how thin her wrists are.
“Skylar Timmons?” a nurse bellows from the double doors.
That was fast.
Skylar stands, smiling weakly. “Thanks, Jude.”
How can I leave her here when she’s looking all sickly, scared, and alone?
“I’ll wait here for you, okay? It shouldn’t take long.” They’ll probably just send her home with some antibiotics and tell her to rest for a few days.
Clearly, I underestimated what goes on beyond the doors of the emergency room.
Three hours later, I’m still in the waiting room, vacillating between annoyed as shit and worried as hell.
And why? I don’t even know this girl. She’s not friend or family to me. The universe just keeps trying to turn me into her personal driver.
I send Kyle a text telling him I’m still waiting. He replies that I should leave. I get a soda and potato chips out of the vending machine. I stare out the window. I eavesdrop on a young couple sitting a few seats over from me. She thinks she’s pregnant and they don’t want to tell anyone. Her family hates him. She was drunk last week and now she’s worried she hurt the baby. He wonders (loudly) if she’s drunk now. A woman across from me is coughing nonstop and is wearing two different socks.
Yeesh. I want to get out of here, but now I’m invested in the wait. Wouldn’t she be out by now if she was okay?
“Jude Lucketti?”
I snap out of my daze. “That’s me.”
“You can come in and see your niece. She’s asking for you.”
My niece?
I follow the nurse through the metal doors and down the hall to a small, private exam room. Skylar is sitting up in the bed with a flimsy gray gown on that dwarfs her, hanging off her shoulder. I try not to look at the thin, black lace bra strap showing. An IV is dripping into a needle taped to the top of her hand.
It feels too intimate—me being in a hospital room with her. Vulnerable, pale, and barely dressed. Someone else should be standing here. A parent, friend, or boyfriend.
Not some guy she barely knows.
“The doctor will be back soon,” the nurse informs us as she leaves.
“You’re still here,” Skylar says.
“I was worried about you. It’s been over three hours.”