Big Rock(48)

“What is it?” I ask, and while I’m pretty sure I’m not down to one eye, since I can still see, I suspect my face isn’t pretty.

“That’s the biggest goose egg I’ve ever seen.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Things I learned tonight.

First, I checked the calendar. Turns out it is Abuse Spencer Day, and abuse occurs in threes. But it’s past midnight now, so I’d like to think the threat level has downgraded to green.

But you never know.

Second, the goose egg is the largest known bump in recorded human history, but three hours of continuous ice have not only frozen my temple but reduced the swelling to pretty much nothing. However, the bruise on the side of my face is what’s referred to as a “whoa, dude, that’s a big-ass bruise.”

That’s what the guy at Duane Reade said when I picked up ibuprofen.

Third, ibuprofen has worked wonders.

But the real test comes now. There’s a buzzing near the door, and it’s Charlotte, since she texted me she was on her way with supplies. I turn to Fido. He’s sound asleep on the couch pillow, his tongue sticking out of his mouth. “Can you answer it?”

He doesn’t respond, so I drag myself off the sofa and head to the door. I press the buzzer. “Hello? Is it the world’s hottest nurse that I ordered from the temp nursing agency?”

Her laugher bounces through the intercom.

“Why yes, it is, and I’m here to give you a sponge bath.”

I buzz Charlotte in, open the door, and wait till the elevator creaks up the six flights then lets her off. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I watch her walk toward me.

“Don’t tell me your eyes hurt, too,” she teases.

“No, just this,” I say, lightly brushing near my temple.

She’s holding several bags, and I shut the door behind her and return to my couch. She sets the bags down on the coffee table, and studies me. Raising her fingers, she moves them close to the bruise, but doesn’t touch. “Does it hurt?”

I nod.

She leans over me and dusts a kiss on my forehead.

I moan for effect. “So much. It hurts so much.”

She shakes her head, then pulls back to look at me. “Seriously. How do you feel?”

I scrunch up the corner of my mouth, torn with whether to tell her the truth—getting better—or to go for sympathy and sex. My decision-making process lasts all of a nanosecond. “Awful,” I mutter, and that earns me one more kiss.

She sits up straight, brushes her palms together, and says, “Okay. I brought you your favorite drink,” she says, reaching for the bag, and showing me an airplane-size bottle of scotch. I raise an eyebrow appreciatively. “Cold sesame noodles from your favorite Chinese restaurant.” She grabs a white carton, and holds it up like it’s on display. I lick my lips. “Or,” she begins, dipping her hand into another bag as she retrieves something wrapped in white butcher paper, “the grilled paninis you love from the bodega on the corner. Chicken and provolone, hold the mayo. Since you hate mayo.”

Forget sympathy and sex. This is what I want. Her, here with me, knowing all these things. I cup her cheeks. “I want it all,” I tell her.

She kisses me, but her kisses are tentative, her lips nervous. “I’m not broken,” I say as I pull away.

“I just feel bad. It’s my fault. I hit you with a cabinet door.”

“Well, it wasn’t intentional.” I pause. “Or was it?”

She shakes her head. “Of course not.”

“Am I that hideous to look at now?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. You’re gorgeous, as always.”

“Then what is it?”

“I just feel terrible for hurting you. I want you to feel better. That’s why I brought you this care package.” She gestures to the goodies.

“And I appreciate it.”

“Let me get you some more ice,” she says, and heads to the kitchen to grab a cold pack from the freezer. When she returns, she presses it to my forehead. Gently, I swat her hand away.

“Charlotte, I’ve been icing it for hours. If you ice it anymore, the goose egg will reverse itself and get sucked into my brain. That’s a very dangerous condition.”

She narrows her eyes but relents, setting down the pack. She gestures to the bottle of ibuprofen. “Do you need any more?”

I shake my head. “I took two at ten p.m. I’m drunk on the stuff right now.”

She wrings her hands. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

I push my head back on the pillow. “Am I somehow doing something that makes you think I give a shit that you whacked me? Unless this horrific bruise is going to stop you from f*cking me right now, I don’t care,” I say loudly.

She shakes her head.

I soften my voice as I run a finger down her neck. “Then stop fussing over me. I don’t want ibuprofen. I don’t want ice. I don’t even want cold noodles, and they’re my second favorite food behind those sandwiches you brought me, hold the mayo please.”

“What do you want?”

I curl my hand around the back of her head and tug her down to me. Her lips hover inches from mine. I thought I didn’t want sex and sympathy. I was right on that account. I want sex and something else, though.