#3 Spitting the coffee that she had to buy you in her face.
When the hell did I turn into a complete moron? I’m contemplating calling Jackson and asking him if he knows where my game’s gone, cause I sure as shit don’t. I want to believe that it’s the whole head injury thing that has me in knots, but I think that it’s maybe just her. We seem to have an easy, comfortable banter. She’s quick-witted and I like it; apparently so does my dick. Every time I’m around this girl she commands attention from my whole body. It’s like I’ve reverted to being a thirteen year-old that’s just realized girls have boobs. Speaking of which, Blair’s wearing a seriously tight yellow t-shirt that has ‘2 ∞ + >’ stretched across her chest. It’s taking some truly astounding willpower to not stare.
“Okay, my mom’s parking the car. I need to head back to my room and collect my bags,” she announces, pulling me from the X-rated daydream her boobs have me in.
“I’ll come and help you with them. I’m a gentleman after all,” I wink as she scoffs and scrapes back her chair from the table. There’s a huge coffee colored stain covering her tits; I’m struggling with whether it embarrasses me or turns me on.
“What?”
“I can’t believe I spat all over your…you know,” I groan
“Neither can I, I had you pegged as a swallower!”
Her words color her cheeks, and I can’t contain my laughter. I place my hand at the small of her back as I guide her from the coffee shop and electricity zings through my veins, coursing its way up my arm and leaving fire in its wake. I wonder if she feels it too?
She explains that she’ll be staying in a hotel with her mom instead of flying home to Santa Maria, so we agree that once I’m released we’ll collect my car and drive home. At the coffee shop she’d promised to fill me in on a few blank spots about what we’re even doing in Arizona. I just hope my car hasn’t been impounded, since I’ve basically abandoned it for the last week or so. I’m nervous as hell at the prospect of a ten-hour car journey with her, but weirdly buzzed at the same time. She’s assured me it will be cool with her mom; I’m not holding my breath on that one, though. I’m assuming that my own mother will be staying here with Dad for some time yet. I don’t see any reason to stay once the docs say I can leave. It certainly isn’t like I’m wanted here; Dad made that perfectly clear. It suits me fine, the farther away from this fucked up situation I am, the better.
“Well, Ethan, I’ve examined your scan results and gone over your notes and I’m happy to release you this afternoon. I have faxed over your records to a colleague of mine at Marian Regional Health Centre. Dr. Bishop is happy to take over your care plan. You’ve been scheduled an assessment with her in three days. The details are all down here.”
“Thanks, Doc,” I tell him as I reach and take the large manila envelope from his outstretched hand. I’ve been bouncing my heels waiting for him to come and approve my release all morning. I’ve never wanted to leave a place so much in my entire life. Mom thanks him for everything he’s done whilst fixing me with an annoyed stare, alerting me to the fact that she’s expecting me to do the same.
“Sorry,” I drop the envelope on the bed and reach out to shake Dr. Moss’s hand. “Thank you for everything,” I tell him as I widen my eyes at my mom in a ‘happy now?’ expression. By the subtle shake of her head, I guess she’s not placated by my efforts. Whatever.
“Are you really just going to leave?” she asks the second that we’re alone.
“Yeah, why?”
“What do you mean, why? Ethan, your dad is in the ICU; he needs life-threatening surgery and you’re just going to leave?” Her tone is laced with disbelief, but she doesn’t sound angry; she sounds sad.
“Are you being serious right now? He hates me. Why would I stay—what for? He sure as shit doesn’t want me here, or am I mistaken? Did I misinterpret the way he screamed for me to get out when I went to his room? Sorry Mom, but here is the last place on this fucking planet that I want to be. He blames me; you and I both know it. Nothing has changed. I’m always the one to blame. The only difference is that now he doesn’t have the luxury of expressing his anger towards me the way he no doubt wants to. The way he’s always done. So yes, Mom, I am about to just leave. I’m not waiting here and being used as a verbal punch bag, and for once, I’m not scared to walk away. Maybe that makes me a coward because I know that he can’t just up and follow me, but honestly, I don’t care. And if you had any sense, you’d do the same. You’d pick me and not him, and leave. But that’s not you, is it? Never has been.”