I groan. “Unh—” I swallow hard. “Yeah. I…Yeah, I think I’m okay.”
“Who am I, Elyse?”
“You’re Jamie. Aiden’s principal.”
“Do you know who you are?” he asks. “What’s your full name?”
I wonder why he’s asking me this…
Oh—he’s worried I have a concussion.
“I’m Elyse Gabrielle Thomas.”
“Do you know your address?”
I tell it to him and then wave him off. “I’m okay. Just…help me out of the car, please.”
“The police are on the way. I want to make sure they’re sending an ambulance.” He grabs his walkie-talkie, adjusts the channel, depressing the talk button.
I stop him with a hand on his. “Don’t. You know the insurance we get won’t cover an ambulance. I’m fine.”
“You need to be looked at, Elyse,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “That was a really bad crash. You were rear-ended and then you slammed into a brick wall.” His eyes are worried. “Give me your insurance card, I’ll handle the police and insurance.” I gratefully give him my insurance card and let him deal with Mrs. Quincy and the police and everything.
He comes back once that’s all dealt with and takes my hands, but I put a few inches of distance between us, unnerved by his proximity, by the obvious concern in his voice and eyes. His hands are on mine, and his thumbs are probing my forehead, his eyes tracking mine carefully. I realize, as a football player and coach, he’s probably very familiar with signs of a concussion.
“I didn’t hit my head,” I tell him. I wince. “But it does ache.”
“The impact and the whiplash can cause headaches.” He brushes my temple with a gentle thumb. “I don’t think you have a concussion.”
“No, just bad whiplash.”
“You need to see a doctor to be sure, though.”
“Aiden.” I glance past him, and then through the passenger window. “Where’s Aiden?”
“Inside with Mrs. Emory. I wasn’t sure how hurt you were, and I didn’t want him to see you if you were bleeding or something.”
I swallow hard. “Th-thank you for that.”
His smile is tender, and it makes my heart hurt. “Come on. Let’s get you up out of this car.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
He shakes his head. “No. The person who rear-ended you is fine. Mrs. Quincy, I think it is? Thank god one of the first things I did as principal was make sure no one is ever on the sidewalk over there during pickup and drop-off—for exactly this reason.”
“Smart guy.”
He reaches in and unbuckles me, and I smell him, feel him—he makes me dizzy. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline and the headache. “Come on.”
His hands are gentle but strong, guiding my legs out of the car and helping my feet hit the ground, and then he has one hand in mine and the other around my waist—far too intimately—and he’s helping me to my feet.
I’m shaky, unsteady; my legs are wobbly, and my hands are trembling. I’m grateful Jamie is beside me, thankful for his arm around my waist as he helps me away from the car with its hissing radiator. I want to lean into him, press my head against his chest, and let him wrap me up.
Instead, once I’m on the sidewalk, I grip his hand hard and push away from him so I’m walking on my own, standing on my own. My head throbs and my neck aches, and I just want to lie down, curl up into a ball and cry.
Aiden.
“I need to see Aiden. I need him to know I’m okay.”
