“I’m not the mom!”
“Call 9-1-1.”
But there are two women behind him already telling 9-1-1 dispatchers the same identical thing in a duet.
The little girl is pale and still, hair almost white, skin whitening by the second. The guy is cooing to her. “Can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? I’m right here. What’s your name?” And then, in a raspier voice, “Stay with me, okay?”
I say, “Don’t talk like that! She isn’t dying, all right? I swear, I’ve seen a bunch of kids fall from way higher than this.”
“Thanks, doctor.” Then he goes back to telling the girl to stay with him, like she’s a police detective breathing her last breath after being felled by a bullet on Law & Order.
I’m stroking her arm.
There’s blood on my hand.
The mother is running toward us from the ladies’ bathroom.
I’m shaking so hard, the paramedic puts a blanket over me after he braces the little girl’s head.
The guy who gave up his shirt, now in the wife beater he had on underneath, hands me a half-full water bottle. I take it without even thinking. That’s how freaked out I am. Not just about the blood.
He gives me a hand up.
I take in the design of the armband tattooed around his right arm.
For the first time, I really look at the guy. Cute and in extremely good shape. Extremely cute. Hazel eyes, shaggy hair, tan. Good smile. Nice taste in tats.
He says, “You ought to sit down.”
I ought to run.
“You just stood me on my feet.”
“On a bench.”
I’m actually gripping this guy’s tattoo. I feel him tensing. His biceps don’t need any work.
“You’ve seen a bunch of little kids fall out of the sky onto wagons?” he says. “Remind me not to have you watch my kid.”
“You have a kid?”
“No!” He looks truly taken aback. “You want an ice cream?”
There’s a food truck at the edge of the park with pictures of snow cones on the side of it.
“That’s okay.”
“I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m trying to give you some sugar so you don’t go into shock.”
“I’m not going into shock. Plus, sugar wouldn’t help. Complete old wives’ tale.”
That smile. “Girls often require massive shots of sugar when they first behold me.”
“Behold? Not grandiose or anything.”
“Grandiose? Thanks a lot!” He doesn’t look offended.
“Honors psychology.” God, now I sound like a high school student. “Who knew that years later I’d have insulting diagnoses at my fingertips? Sorry.”
“How come you won’t let me help you out? You’re still shaking.”
He’s so close to me, propelling me toward the bench, I can feel him shift his weight slightly toward me. Feel his bare forearm against mine. Hear him breathing hard.
He says, “Come on, ice cream. We could still call it celebratory ice cream. We just saved that kid from bleeding to death.”
“All I did was hold her hand.” His foot’s touching my foot. “You did the first aid.”
“Boy Scout,” he says. “Who knew that years later the first aid would come in handy?”
Great. I’ve found myself a hot Boy Scout. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not. That would violate the Boy Scout creed. In fact, I think there’s a bylaw that says you have to get Popsicles for girls covered in blood.”
I start to get up to rinse my hands, to get the blood off me, all of it, now, but I have to sit down again. Dizzy and dry mouthed. Field of vision narrowing. Passing out.
“Are you all right?” He has his arm around me, but I think it might be to keep me from falling over as opposed to uninvited PDA.
Who am I kidding? I like it.
“You don’t look like a Boy Scout.”
“This?” He holds out the tattooed arm.
“I like it.”
I get that Xena, Warrior Princess wouldn’t be cuddling up to this really cute guy in a wife beater in a public park. She’d be home making arrowheads. I get it.
But I can’t catch my breath or blink or move. His heart is beating like crazy too, after his virtuoso moves with the injured kid.
Maybe all I’m feeling is like how, after you get spun upside down on the Colossus at State Fair for what feels like forever, you’re so hyped up, you want to kiss the random guy sitting behind you in your capsule.
Maybe.
Or maybe I actually want what I want, which would mean I’m insane.
He says, “What’s your name? Are you hearing me?”
“Please don’t start telling me to stay with you like that kid. What’s your name?”
“J-j-Jay . . .” The slight stammer gets me. As if maybe he’s got a slightly (less than 1 percent but still endearing) bashful side. “Just the initial.”
No way.
Then he reads my face.
He says, “When I was eleven, I thought it was cool. Then it stuck.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Don’t cringe. Jeremiah. I only got called it one day a year, the first day of school, until I wised up and got to the teachers before they called roll.”