“Hey.” I open my arms and then realize that a rib-crushing hug is the last thing he needs right now.
“What are you doing here, Gems?” The tone of his voice is tired but affectionate as he reaches out a hand, cups my chin, and holds it there while I press my cheek into his palm.
“Brandon told me what happened. I’m the reinforcements. Let’s get you home.”
He takes my hand, and we walk toward the exit doors.
“Mr. McGuire,” a female voice calls from behind us. “Mr. McGuire!”
We turn simultaneously to see a middle-aged nurse in seafoam-green scrubs step through the sliding doors separating the ER and waiting room. “You left this on the counter.” She hands Dax a piece of white paper. A prescription.
We step out into the night air, which is still a little chilly despite it being August.
“We should call an Uber.” I pull out my phone, but Dax shakes his head. “It’s okay. I can walk.” He starts off in the direction of Barton Street.
“Daxon B. McGuire,” I say in a voice that is sterner than I ever thought I was capable of, “you are not walking home with a broken rib. Come back here right now. Or else.”
My empty threat is enough that he turns around, eyebrows raised.
“Or else what?”
“You and I know that even in your injured state, you could still take me, so I physically can’t do anything, and I refuse to use sex as a weapon both on principle and because I fully intend to ride that beautiful penis again when you’ve recovered, so I’m asking you, as your newly minted girlfriend, to come back here and get in a cab with me.”
He takes a single step closer. “I’m locked out of my Uber app.”
I throw my hands up. “So? Mine is working. I’m calling one right now.”
Dax mumbles something under his breath. It doesn’t sound overly happy, but he reverses his steps and waits with me until a bright-orange Mazda pulls up in front of us.
Neither of us says a word as we cruise down Wellington until we pull up in front of the pharmacy and stop.
“What are we doing here?” Dax’s eyes are rightfully skeptical.
I snatch the white sheet still clutched in his hand. “Getting you drugs. I have a plan to get you high and uncover all your secrets.” Dax tries to take the paper back from my hands, but the quick motion causes him to gasp with pain to the point that I regret testing him.
“Shit. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
He nods, not looking okay at all. “It’s fine, Gemma. I don’t need anything.”
I have no idea where this is coming from. Dax normally would consider prescription pain drugs to be a blessing and welcome the deep, delicious sleep they bring.
“Stop being silly. I’ll go in. Just give me your insurance card.”
Dax’s face flares so red that I can see it even in the dim lighting. “Um…I had a small issue with my insurance provider. I’m between plans right now.”
Shit. Still, it’s Percocet. I can’t see it costing more than fifty bucks. “No worries, I’ll pay cash.”
I reach for the car door handle, but Dax stops me. “Honestly, Gemma, I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Dax has never been good at letting anyone take care of him. I have never been good at backing down once I’ve set my mind to something. This back-and-forth will likely end with a twenty-minute passive-aggressive argument in front of the Rexall leading to an unnecessarily obscene Uber bill—unless I impose some tough love.
“You are hurt. I have a script for some very magical pills in my hand. I’m gonna go in. You can take off and leave me stranded, but I know you won’t do that because no matter how pissed off I make you, you’re never an asshole.”
“Gemma—”
I fling the car door open, not letting him finish.
The pharmacist’s name is Stan. We talk sports while he fills my prescription. I talk up my curling abilities to impress him, and I think it works because along with Dax’s pills he hands me a Coffee Crisp from the candy bar rack “on the house.”
As I expected, Dax and the Uber are waiting for me when I get out, although he doesn’t say too much on the ride home.
There’s no make-out in the corridor tonight. Only me following Dax up the stairs, half-worried that he’s going to pass out from the pain and that I’m going to have to catch him.
I’m relieved when we reach the third floor and his door is in sight.
Dax reaches for his keys, and as he shifts his body, it gives me an unobstructed view of his door and the white piece of paper taped to it. I scan the twelve-point Times New Roman font, not quite registering that I’m invading Dax’s privacy until I read the words that turn my blood cold.