“You think they’re gonna put me in a nice room, tuck me into bed, and ask me how I feel? Shit, they’re just gonna throw me in the hallway with all the other people who look like me, make me wait seven hours just to slap on a Band-Aid, and send me on my way.”
He pinched his brow at her, like he couldn’t believe her but didn’t want to argue. Then he sighed loudly and said, “I’m going to at least stay with you for a bit.”
Kit relaxed a little at this. “Can you patch me up before Charlie gets back?” She could still taste iron from where Trip had bitten her lip, and her knuckles were split from the punching.
“I can take care of you,” he said, and Kit was surprised when he didn’t blush but held her in his gaze. She nodded and hobbled slowly toward the passenger seat with Caleb close enough to touch.
An ashy light began to show as Caleb pulled up the gravel drive to his house. A giant orange tabby left his bed in the azaleas to greet them, wove between his owner’s legs. Caleb shooed him off and walked around to Kit. He offered an arm to help her out of the car, but she refused, hoisted herself forward, and stiff-legged, made her way to his door. He went in ahead of her and clattered around in a cabinet for his first aid supplies, laid them out on a tray lined with a clean towel. She lingered at the doorway, waiting for direction.
“Your house is neat as shit,” she said and could hear from the fatty sound of her voice that she was still drunk. “Where am I supposed to sit? I’m filthy.” He held his hand out to her.
“Sit here,” he said and led her to the taut and tidy couch. She collapsed onto it and he lifted her feet and propped up her head with a pillow. Caleb gloved his hands and loaded a cotton ball with alcohol. She blinked her eyes against the fumes. As he dabbed the oozy cuts on her lips, he seemed to maintain a clinical distance. His face calm, removed. His touch careful and efficient. But Kit could tell by the blush across his neck that he was embarrassed, or enlivened, by their closeness. When he was finished, he handed her a glass of water. She drank it all at once, coughing at the last gulp.
“I have to test you for a concussion now.” He shone a penlight in her eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Tom Selleck.”
A hedging laugh. “Do you feel nauseated?”
“No.”
“That’s good,” he said. “Can you hold out your arms and touch your fingers to your nose?”
She reached out straight and as she touched her nose she snarfed, a spasm of a laugh.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before,” he said. He looked guarded, but amused.
“Sorry,” she said and covered a smile.
“Now I know there’s something wrong with you,” he jabbed. She smiled again, this time letting it show.
He exhaled deeply. “Well, should I take you home?” The thin morning sun shone through the curtains, lighting up his face. Kit nodded. Caleb headed to the door, but Kit stopped him.
“Hey.” She reached toward him for a lift off the sofa. He took her hand—those pretty nails of his—and helped her to stand.
“You saved a life today,” she said and clapped him on the back. “I was gonna kill that motherfucker.” He smoothed back his hair, the creases gone from his brow, and for a moment they shared a smile, uncomplicated, between two people who might be friends.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charlie awoke in the back of a truck to the nasal crick-crack of egrets on the lake. The weed had knocked her out and she had fallen asleep next to Dirk, who was sighing peacefully, an arm thrown over his eyes. Dew had glazed the truck and everything in it, soaked her clothes and shoes. She pushed herself up, careful not to jostle Dirk, and looked for something to drink. She was thirsty as hell. Nothing in the back, nothing in the cab. She could wake Dirk up and ask him to take her to the gas station for a Coke, but she was feeling funny about having spent the night with him. Not that she thought he had done anything to her, it was just that she had never slept with anyone like that, no one but her mom. She didn’t know what he would expect of her, or what he thought it meant that she had gotten high and slept with him—next to him.
She lifted her bike by the handlebar and lowered it off the side of the truck to the ground. She sat on the edge and hopped off, the truck swaying a little with the shift in weight. Dirk snoozed on. The grass was thick for riding, so she walked the bike until there was road enough to ride into town.
When she got to the gas station, she left her bike out front and threw open the door. She didn’t have a cent on her, but grabbed a bottle from the fridge anyway and walked it up to the register. There was Wanda at her post behind the counter, watching the news on a little black-and-white set mounted on the wall; to her right, gathered beside the coffeepot, were Beulah Baker and the man who had come calling a couple weeks back. The man who had thrown her mom into a frenzy. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him before, but here in the white fluorescent light he was striking. Beulah must have thought so, too. She stood on one leg, the other hitched up, her foot wrapped coyly around her ankle. She wore head-to-toe spandex with little Velcro weights strapped to her wrists and ankles.
“I can’t tell you how impressed I was with your take on Samson and Delilah,” she said to the man. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard it told so . . . sensual. You make the Bible positively thrilling.”
“It’s not me,” Manny said. “It’s in the scripture. The Good Book is only boring for people who lack imagination.”
Charlie marveled at his smoothness. She laughed at Beulah twirling her hair and biting her lip, her leotard riding up in the back. Beulah tugged it down with a swipe of her thumb.
“Now where are you off to looking so fit?” Manny asked, tugging the pink strap at her shoulder.
“Oh, I’m fixin’ to go to Jazzercise? Over in Waller?”
“Is that right?” he said, eyes locked on Beulah like she was fascinating beyond belief. Charlie couldn’t decide whether this was the most odious or the most hilarious conversation she had ever witnessed.
“Well, I just have to exercise, I’m too fond of my chips and queso!” She slapped him on the shoulder to punctuate her joke. “Anyhoo, much as I’d like to stay and chat . . . I better not be late.”
“Not on account of me,” he said. She squinted, like what he had said was too cute.
“Well, bye then,” she said, sweet as corn syrup.
The man nodded farewell, and Beulah sashayed down the snack aisle in her white high-tops, a secret smile on her face until she saw Charlie. “What are you looking at, missy?” she said in a nasty way. Charlie waited till she had turned and left before she mimed gagging herself in Beulah’s direction. Ever since the pencil incident, Beulah and her crew, the well-to-do ladies of Pecan Hollow, went out of their way to be rude to Charlie. Not that she had ever been in their good favor, but now they openly scowled.