The Trouble With Quarterbacks(77)

“Logan! Candace! Where are you guys headed this morning?” one of them asks when they get closer.

Neither of us answers, but that doesn’t stop people from turning to take notice of the spectacle. They’re curious about why we’re drawing so much attention. I hear people start to murmur Logan’s name and he tries to grab my hand, but then a passing pedestrian who’s trying to hurry away from the crowd knocks into me and I shuffle back to keep from falling. Without bothering to check if I’m okay, a photographer comes closer, shoving a microphone right under my chin.

“Are you headed to breakfast?” he asks me.

Is this allowed?! How can they get away with this?

“Please back up,” I say, holding my hand out to block him from coming any closer.

He doesn’t listen, and there are too many people starting to surround us. Logan tries to grab my hand again, but I have to step back, out of the way of another photographer who’s snapping photos directly in front of my face. The flash keeps going, blinding me.

“Stop!” I shout, angry that they’re violating my personal space like this. What are they after, anyway? An up-close shot of my nostrils? They need to stay back, or better yet, go away altogether!

“Candace, are you and Logan an official item?!” another asks impatiently, like I’m the one causing them problems.

“Candace,” Logan says, his voice more severe than I’ve ever heard it. I know he’s not upset with me—he’s just trying to get my attention—but I take another step back, trying to get away from the photographers, and I stumble right over the edge of the curb. I didn’t realize I was so close to the street, and well, I’ve never been the most agile person. Once I lose my footing, I’m able to keep myself standing, but then wham—I find myself in the direct path of an oncoming cyclist. I turn just in time to see his bike headed toward me, and then I scream as we collide.





I wake up on my back, blinking up against a bright light. A huge figure comes into hazy focus in my periphery.

Oh dear, I’ve died. And that’s God there, coming round to tell me they haven’t got any room up in heaven for the likes of me—not since that time in the fourth grade when I stole Patsy Smith’s jelly sandwich when she wasn’t looking. Suppose it’s hell for me. Better get on with it then.

“Candace?”

God sounds a lot like Logan.

I don’t find it all that surprising, really. Then I force myself to look to the side and I see Logan there. The first thing I think is, Wonderful! He’s dead too!

Then my logic kicks in and I realize I’m in hospital, gowned up and in quite a bit of pain.

It’s not as if I don’t remember getting here; it’s just that I’m a bit disoriented. I remember the cyclist and the crash—OUCH—and then I remember some of being at the scene of the accident, everyone shouting and crowding around me. There was quite a lot of conflicting advice getting tossed around.

Don’t move her!

Well we can’t just leave her lying on the street! Someone grab her feet and help me hoist her onto the sidewalk!

Has anyone seen her shoe?!

An ambulance came up quickly with its blinking lights and weeoo weeoo siren blaring, and Logan was there the whole time, holding my hand, looking down at me and telling me I’d be all right. I remember feeling safe with him beside me, confident that I wouldn’t come to harm as long as he was near.

“How long have I been out?” I ask, aware my throat’s a bit dry and scratchy.

“Just a few hours. They said you’d be tired after everything that happened.”

“So I wasn’t in a coma then? I haven’t been out for a decade, have I?”

Wouldn’t that be just my luck? Sleeping away the rest of my 20s and waking up 35 and in need of eye cream.

I expect him to smile or laugh. It’s a funny question, right? But he only shakes his head.

Right.

I look down and try to assess the damage to my body. My left hand is bandaged, and I think I remember them putting some stitches in for a cut there. I lift the blanket up off my body with my right hand and glance down. Underneath my hospital gown, I can see some mild bruises and scratches on my legs, but nothing too serious. Phew.

“Is it just my hand then?” I ask, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed to be laid up in hospital with all these IVs and machines beeping round me. I’m quite the wuss, aren’t I?

“And a mild concussion.” He says it like he’s trying not to wince. “The nurses should be back in soon to check on you. They said I was supposed to wake you up if you slept much longer.”

“Right. Okay then.”

Next I register an odd feeling on my head, like something heavy is weighing it down. I lift my right hand and feel the thick bandage wrapped around my hair a few times. Oh. Lovely.

“You have a bad cut there,” Logan says, answering my unasked question. “On the back of your head where you hit the ground. They had to cut away some of your hair.”

“I’m bald?!”

Somehow that’s the most alarming thing of all.

“No, it’s nothing. You won’t even be able to tell once it’s all healed.”

I pat around back there gently.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I say, a little baffled.