I was chasing a taxi. Then I was flying. There was screaming, and it hurt, and a woman was looking down at me.
Youssef was there. An ambulance. The hospital. X-rays and doctors and more and more pain. Youssef—
Horror turns my spine to ice.
“Mierda.”
“What?” Youssef is leaning over me again, his face pinched as he glances over my body like he’s trying to figure out what’s wrong. “What is it?”
My lip curls as I admit it. “I told a nurse I think you’re sexy. Oh my god.”
Youssef freezes for a second and then starts laughing so hard he has to grip the edge of my desk for support.
“Yeah,” he finally chokes out. “Yeah, you did, like, multiple times.”
I turn my death glare on him, but he just starts howling all over again.
“Oh my god, it was all you could talk about.” He’s wiping his eyes now and gasping for breath. “You said it to the doctor, the nurses, even the guy who pushed your wheelchair.”
“Wheelchair?” I squint at him. “I don’t remember that part.”
“I’m sure there’s lots you don’t remember. You were pretty high. Not high enough to forget how sexy I am, though.”
“I will cut you.” I give him the finger with my good arm. “Never mention that again.”
“Good luck cutting me with your left hand.”
I look down at my bandaged arm, and the dread hits all over again.
“Oh fuck no. No no no. This is so bad. What the fuck am I going to do?”
“Paige, it’s o—”
“It is not okay!” I stare into his concerned face as panic loops itself around my chest, constricting my rib cage. “How am I going to play? How am I going to work? How am I going to feed myself? Did anyone even tell the club what happened? Where’s my gear? How long do I have to wear this fucking thing? Is my—”
“Paige.”
“—hand going to heal right? What if I can never play properly again? I have gigs coming up. I have—”
“Paige.”
Youssef leans down to grab my chin, bringing his face just a few inches from mine.
“Breathe.”
The stream of questions running through my head flicks off like a light switch, replaced by an overwhelming awareness of how close he is. I can see myself reflected in his eyes. I can hear him breathing. I can smell his skin.
“You’re going to be fine.”
He lets my face go, and the moment breaks. He straightens back up, clearing his throat as I try to ignore the way my chin is still burning from his touch.
“I’m really going to need a detailed explanation of everything that happened between approximately nine-thirty last night and—” I glance at my alarm clock. “Shit. Five PM?”
* * *
It takes almostan hour for me to be satisfied with all the information. Youssef describes everything he can remember from the hospital, and despite my threats, he does mention me calling him sexy several times in his recollections. He brings the pile of prescriptions and care information sheets to the bed, and I almost lose it when I see the lists of all the things I’m supposedly going to need help with—which include showering and feeding myself—but I pull it together before I can start screaming again.
I have a follow-up appointment a week from now. I’ll get better answers then. They can’t have meant it when they said it would be a six week recovery time. I didn’t even need surgery.
