Page 37 of The Fast Lane
That night eight months ago was different. I’d gone to bed around ten; I woke on the floor hours later. A wave of nausea greeted me. My head throbbed, and when I put my hand to the back of my head, it came away bloody.
The best I could guess, I’d had a seizure, fallen off the bed and my head hit the nightstand on the way down. After laying on the floor until I felt steady enough to attempt to move, I’d half stumbled, half crawled to the bathroom. Despite the fuzziness of my vision, I managed to make it just in time to puke.
It had been two in the morning, and I needed to go to the hospital to get checked out. I couldn’t call my parents. My mother would lose her mind, and I’d finally gotten her used to me living on my own.
I didn’t want to call Frankie who would turn around and call my parents. I could have called Mae, and she would have come to rescue me. But I was starting to get real tired of the imbalance in our friendship. If there was a giant scale with FRIENDS WHO GOT IN TROUBLE on one side and FRIENDS WHO RESCUED FRIENDS on the other, I knew what side I was on.
So, I called Theo. Even though we weren’t nearly as close as we’d been as kids, given my whole Theo Thirst Era, the fallout from that, and my strict Friend Zone rule, I called and he came. Because he was Theo, he didn’t ask questions; he just showed up, wearing gym shorts and an inside-out t-shirt, his hair protesting the early wake-up call by practically standing on end.
He’d taken one look at me, still not quite steady on my feet, a towel pressed to the cut on my head, and carefully, gently, like I was made of something fragile and precious—and at that moment, maybe I was—he’d wrapped his arms around me and held me. It had taken everything in me not to burst into tears. It soothed something in me, him being there, quietly comforting me.
After, he’d helped me to his car and taken me to the emergency room.
I’d ended up with a mild concussion that required I stay off screens for a couple of weeks, and a phone call to my neurologist who changed up my medication for the first time in over a year.
Theo had taken me home afterward and insisted on staying with me for the day. “To make sure you don’t knock your head on anything else.”
He hadn’t hovered like my mom. He didn’t make me feel guilty for needing someone, like Mae would without meaning to. He was just there, quietly checking on me while I slept off the aftereffects.
And he’d never breathed a word of it to anyone.
Although it had been eight months since, I still found myself spooked some nights. I’d never been one of those people who could predict when a seizure was coming. A few minutes before, a sense of foreboding might slither up my spine. But sometimes the seizure came, and sometimes Peter Stone appeared.
“I have this dream.” My voice cracked slightly.
“About what?”
“Falling off a tall bed, hitting my head, and landing like a bleeding, crumpled piece of paper. Not very original, right? Whatever could it be about?” I tried to keep my voice light.
“So, you sleep on the floor.”
“Not every night. Just the nights I dream. I get…tense.” And terrified and unable to close my eyes if I’m lying in bed. The only way I’d been able to go back to sleep, I’d discovered, was moving to the floor. I’d never had to deal with nightmares before, even as a kid. I could watch the creepiest of horror movies (and I did because three older brothers) and they never affected me.
I guess that’s the difference between a fake movie and a very real accident.
I yanked out the scrunchie holding my hair back and reworked it into a ponytail. “I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep.”
He gave me a long look. “Come on.”
“Come where?”
“I’m not letting you sleep on the floor.” He held his hand out and wiggled his fingers. “Come on.”
I took his hand and disregarded the sleepy dragons, their wings fluttering ever so gently. “I really am fine.”
Ignoring me, he led me to the small table. “Stay there.”
Quickly, he swept up the pillows and blankets I’d made my nest out of and threw them on the foot of my bed. Then he shoved the bed against the wall, boxing it between two walls and a dresser now at the foot of the bed.
He clasped my hand and tugged me toward it. “Now you won’t have to worry about rolling off.”
Nibbling on my bottom lip. I hesitated. “What about the other side?”
“I have that covered, too. But first we need to get you in bed.” Then without any warning, he turned, slid an arm under my knees and behind my shoulders and unceremoniously dumped me on the bed.
I squeaked out something unintelligible in surprise. Ignoring me, he covered me with the blanket and stuffed a pillow under my head. I laid there like a stunned fish, mouth opening and closing in disbelief.
“Give me a second.” While I watched, he dragged away the nightstand from between the beds. Thirty seconds later, he’d pushed his twin bed against mine. He snapped off the bathroom light and crawled into his bed. “There. Now you can’t roll off this way either. Better?”