The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(51)

I’m not sure what happened to Corbin; Ethan rode in the ambulance with me as I puked on him and Mikey and told them all about Aunt Boggy between gags.

The E.R. doctors took my history, mostly from Ethan since apparently I tried to give out the recipe for my Lazarus scones, figuring the good doctors should know there’s a new cure for comas. A nurse called Anne to get my prescription, and someone else had Ash go to my place and count the pills left in the bottle, as if I’d tried to overdose. This rankled, and I punished the slanderous staff by refusing to open my mouth for the thermometer until Ethan told me to stop being such an ass and do it. Which I did.

Since I’d already puked up whatever was left in my stomach, my only treatment was time and humiliation. My fingers returned to normal size, my eyes once again warmed to body temperature.

Which brings us to now.

“I’m really sorry about all this,” I say for perhaps the one hundred and forty-third time.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Ethan says, not looking at me. His leg jiggles, his arms are folded over his chest.

“Okay!” the E.R. doc asks, breezing into the room. He looks to be about twelve and exudes all the loving sincerity of Paris Hilton. “How’s she feeling?”

“Much better,” I say. The doctor ignores me, as he seems to hate me—I believe I threw up on him also—and waits for Ethan’s confirmation.

“Much better,” Ethan agrees.

“Does she have someone to stay with her overnight?” the doctor asks, scribbling on the chart. Clearly he doesn’t think I can answer for myself.

Ethan glances at me. “Yes,” he answers, dropping his gaze to check the time. The message is clear. I’ll do it because I have to, even though you completely screwed up my night.

My throat grows tight. If Corinne weren’t nursing her baby every twenty minutes, I’d ask her to stay with me. If Parker didn’t have a four-year-old child with a tendency to wake up before dawn, I’d ask her. If it wasn’t one in the morning, I’d ask my mom. Hell, I’ll ask my mom anyway. Better than forcing Ethan to babysit me.

“I’ll call my mom,” I say, smiling at the doctor. He doesn’t deign to look at me.

“Don’t be silly,” Ethan says. “I’ll stay with you.” He glances at me, his gaze bouncing almost immediately back to the doctor. He’s not being mean—Ethan just doesn’t do mean—but he’s not being nice, either.

Now if Jimmy were here—which would negate my need for dating, antianxiety medications and a nursemaid—if Jimmy were here, we’d be laughing about this. We’d laugh our heads off. He’d make jokes and lie on the gurney with me and cuddle me and play with my hair, ignoring the fact that I smelled like vomit. There would be no guilt or feelings of being a burden or pain in the ass or anything. Times like this, I miss Jimmy so much my heart actually hurts.

“She’s good to go, then. Here are her instructions.” Dr. Hateswomen turns to me. “Obviously, miss,” he says slowly, as if talking to a befuddled child, “you need to throw away that medication. All of it. Don’t keep any. Don’t take it ever again. You’re very allergic to this medication, and that should go into your medical file. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I—”

He interrupts, turning again to Ethan. “Call me if you can’t wake her or if she starts to hallucinate again.”

“Will do. Thank you.” They shake hands, then the good doctor turns and leaves without a glance at me.

“Let’s go, then,” Ethan says, offering me a hand as I scootch off the gurney. I ignore the hand and stand, mostly steadily.

Out in the parking lot, Ethan walks me over to his Audi and opens the passenger door. Someone—Doral-Anne, maybe, or Tommy Malloy or Lenny himself—must have driven Ethan’s car over to the hospital. He waits for me to get in, closes the door, then gets in the driver’s side and starts up the car.

“Do you still have your motorcycle?” I ask, just to be chatty and friendly.

“Yep.” Then, realizing he’s being less than kind to the poor patient, turns to look at me. “How are you feeling?”

“Um, not bad,” I answer. “Just tired.”

“Okay, well, let’s get you home to bed, then.”

We drive through the quiet, darkened streets of our little town, and I’m grateful that Anne had advised Ethan to take me to the local hospital and not anything farther from home. It’s only a few minutes to the Boatworks. Ethan parks in his spot, then hops out and slides over the hood of the car à la Starsky of Starsky and Hutch fame to open my door. A ghost of a grin appears on his face, and once again, my throat, raw from the evening’s adventure, tightens. I miss that smile.

He walks a pace behind me, ready, I’m sure, to take my arm if I wobble. I don’t.

We don’t speak in the elevator, though he catches me looking and gives me a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Ethan’s face has rather perfect and unremarkable features. His nose is straight, his eyes are evenly spaced and of average size. His mouth is well proportioned, his cheekbones symmetrical. Nothing special…not until he smiles, and those lips curve up in that unusual, unexpectedly charming grin. I’ve never seen a face that’s so transformed by a smile. Or that’s so carefully blank without one.