Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
“I should call my neighbors. Joe and Mark take care of Wilfred when I’m away.”
“I can do it for you if you’d like.”
“Just need my phone.” I slap around at my waist, feeling for it.
“It’s right here.” She holds it up in front of my face, which unlocks it.
She even helps me bring up the contact list, but when I try to jab the screen I miss.
“I can take it from here. You just rest.”
I nod once and close my eyes. I can hear her talking, but she sounds far away. I reach out, I’m not sure what for, but fingers close around mine and then I’m sinking into darkness.
The next time I open my eyes it’s to the sound of whispered voices. I crack a lid.
“The swelling has gone down, and he’s breathing normally,” the nurse says quietly. “We’ll give him an EpiPen just in case, and I can show you how to use it as well, so you can administer it in an emergency.”
“Oh, uh—”
I clear my throat, and both of them startle. “Oh!” Kitty flits around the side of the bed, hands fluttering in the air. “You’re awake! That’s great! How are you feeling?” For a moment I think she’s going to touch my face or run her fingers through my hair, either of which would be unexpected, but also not unwelcome. She drops her hands before she makes contact, though, which is slightly disappointing.
“I’m okay. What time is it?”
“Just after ten,” the nurse supplies, gaze moving to his clipboard and then back to me.
“Ten? I’ve been out for hours.” I don’t know how many, but it must be several, since it was around dinnertime when Kitty first arrived at my mother’s.
“The antihistamines were strong.” Kitty awkwardly pats my shoulder, then clasps her hands together again.
“Thanks for staying.” My voice is hoarse with sleep, but my throat no longer feels like it’s trying to close, so that’s great. It’s one thing to sleep with someone beside you who is also sleeping. It’s another thing to be out cold on drugs while someone I don’t know all that well, who isn’t very fond of me, sits by my bedside and watches over me because I had an allergic reaction. Possibly to my mother’s cat.
“It was more for my peace of mind than anything,” she mutters.
I don’t know what that means, and there’s a nurse in the room, whose gaze keeps flipping between us, as if he’s trying to figure out the dynamic. I know I am.
The nurse takes my vitals and gives me the all-clear, but tells Kitty that I shouldn’t drive for at least another eight to twelve hours and that it would be best if I wasn’t on my own, in case I have another attack.
“Shit. How am I going to get home?”
After a few seconds, Kitty says, “I can drive you.”
“I live in the city, though. And then how will you get home? I’ll call an Uber.”
“But the doctor said you shouldn’t be left alone.” She clasps her hands behind her back. “Unless you have a roommate or a girlfriend who lives with you?” Her cheeks flush.
That’s an interesting reaction. “No roommate or girlfriend, just my dog. Crap. He’s been alone all day.”
“I talked to your neighbors, remember? Or maybe you don’t. But they took him for a walk and brought him back to their place. I told them you’d call when you were being released.”
“Right. Okay. That’s good.” I vaguely remember her offering to call them. It feels like days ago, not hours.
“I think it’s best for me to drive you home and stay to make sure you don’t have another reaction,” she says decisively.
“My neighbors are right across the hall.”
“If your throat closes and you pass out from lack of oxygen, it’s going to be hard to call them,” she argues. “And I’d say you could stay at my place, but I live with my mom and sister.”
“And I’m sure you have at least two cats.” I clear my throat; just saying the word makes my windpipes feel like they’re constricting.
“No cats, just embarrassing family members.”
“You don’t have a cat?” That’s a surprise.
“Not since I was a teenager.” She drops her head, and her expression grows pinched.
I feel like there’s a story there. How can someone who adores cats not own one? That seems . . . preposterous. But I leave it alone, not wanting to add to the weird tension. “Are you sure you’re okay to take me home?”
“I’m sure. Besides”—she gives me a cheeky smile—“your car is fun to drive.”
“Ah, there it is, the real reason behind the offer.” I throw my legs over the side of the bed and look down at my hospital gown–covered torso. “I need some clothes.”
“They’re right here.” Kitty passes me the pile, which was sitting on the small table beside the bed.