“You fainted,” Lydia says from the driver’s seat, her voice tight with worry. “And you hit your head on the shower wall super hard.”
I burst into laughter, the kind of uncontrollable giggle that makes my chest ache. For the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not thinking about everything that could go wrong or the property I’m losing each day I spend not married. I’m simply thinking about how ridiculous my first experience consuming weed brownies went.
“You worry too much, Lydia. I’m fiiiine.” I drag the word out and dissolve into another fit of laughter.
“See Lydia, she’s fine,” Rae says immediately followed by a giggle.
“She made a very loud thud when she fell!” Lydia shrieks. “We heard you from all the way in the living room with Rae’s loud horror flick turned on! We need to get her checked out.”
I laugh again as Rae whispers to me. “You’re a lightweight.”
I press a finger to my lips, swaying toward her as if I’m whispering a secret. “I ate a second brownie. Don’t tell Rae.”
Her eyes practically bug out before she starts laughing so hard she doubles over the center console.
“I’m Rae, silly, and you’re insane. That’s way too much for someone your size.”
The edges of my vision start to blur, my eyelids feeling heavy as I rest my head back onto the headrest. This was a good idea, even if my head is aching like I just fell on concrete. At least now I’m not thinking about the fact that my dream is slipping through my fingers.
A few minutes later, the car comes to a stop, and I barely register the strong arms that scoop me out of the vehicle and deposit me into a hospital issued wheelchair.
“This is a little dramatic,” I mumble, squinting up at Rae as she pushes me along.
She smirks. “Lydia was right, you hit your head hard. We need to make sure you didn’t get a concussion.”
Lydia walks beside her, a rare smile tugging at her lips. My heart clenches unexpectedly, and before I can stop myself, tears fill my eyes. Maybe it’s the weed that’s making me overly sentimental and emotional, maybe I really do have a concussion, and it’s permanently altered my brain, or perhaps it’s the chaos of my life lately and the fact that I’m turning thirty soon, and everything just feels… overwhelming.
“I love you guys,” I blurt out, my voice cracking on the words.
Rae stops short, her expression softening. “We love you too.”
I’m not sure how much time passes before I’m lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to an IV. The drugs are supposed to help with the headache from my graceful collision with Colt’s fancy shower and hopefully counteract the effect of the brownies, though I don’t dare say that part out loud. We didn’t tell themwhyexactly I slipped, figuring that was a detail better left out of my medical records.
Rae paces in the corner like a restless, black cat, her gaze flicking between the TV, her phone clutched in her hands, me, and the window like she’s considering jumping out of it.
“Cash is gonna kill me if he finds out why you’re actually here.”
I manage a weak laugh. “I’m fine.” Because really, I feel fine. It’s not so bad. “The drugs are definitely helping,” I say then burstout laughing because who knows which drugs I’m talking about. The hospitals’ or Rae’s brownies.
She arches an eyebrow, clearly more sober than I am now. “I know, but he’ll still be pissed. Probably punish me.” Her eyes widen as soon as the words leave her lips as if that thought isn’t entirely unwelcome, and I let out a groan.
Lydia’s perched in the corner; legs tucked under her as she types furiously on her phone. The door creaks open, and a nurse enters first, her smile warm and professional.
“Hi Regan, I’m Nina, your nurse,” she says with a chipper smile. “I’m here with the doctor on call who’ll be examining you for a possible concussion today.”
The words barely register. Because behind her is the doctor.
Him.
And nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared me for the emotional shock of seeing him again especially like this.
My jaw unhinges. My lungs forget their basic function. I think I might even black out for half a second because the entire room feels like it’s tilting. If it’s possible to somehow get high again without eating more of the brownie, yeah, that just happened. A single drop of something slides from the corner of my mouth and hits the exposed skin at the dip of my hospital gown.
Drool?
A tear?
Who the hell knows!
