Speakeasy (True North #5)(64)

I don’t, though. I grab my keys and wallet and get the hell out of there.





Chapter Twenty-Four





May


“Why don’t you drink some more water,” my mother suggests, holding out the hospital cup with the straw. “Maybe the ibuprofen will kick in faster.”

I take the drink that’s offered, because it’s the path of least resistance.

If I thought my family was overbearing before, it was nothing like the frenzy they’ve whipped themselves into now. Note to self: If you’re not looking for attention, don’t crash your car into a tree.

It’s practically a vigil. My mother, my sister—who’s home from college for Christmas break—both my brothers, my grandfather, and Audrey are all crammed into this hospital room with me. And for no reason at all. We’re basically waiting for a doctor to step in and sign off on my release.

“Most of you guys can head home,” I suggest. “Nothing more to see here.”

“I want to hear what the doctor says about your hand,” Griffin argues.

He means well, I remind myself. I love my family. It’s just that I want to punch them a little sometimes.

The door opens, and we all turn our heads to see who it is. Please be the doctor, I beg the universe. I just want to go home.

“Oh Jesus!” Lark squeaks. “Honey!”

Crap. “I’m fine. But I hope the hair and makeup person you found for your wedding is a superstar. Either that, or the photographer better be gifted with Photoshop.”

I have terrifying bruises on my face, courtesy of my car’s airbag. When my mother arrived at four in the morning, I’d tried a joke, “You should see the other guy.”

But one look at my face, and she’d sobbed. I felt like an asshole. I still do.

“What happened?” Lark asks, moving around the bed to the only free spot.

“Deer in the road,” I say quickly. Not to mention the phone in my hand.

And—humiliatingly—the cops had asked for a blood-alcohol test. Which of course I passed. But I was embarrassed, anyway. Once you actually drive a car when you shouldn’t, the shame never goes away. Even when alcohol is not in my bloodstream, it’s on my mind.

My family suspected the worst, too. In the wee hours, when Griffin and Audrey arrived with my mother, Griff very gently asked me if there was alcohol involved with the accident.

“No. Just stupidity,” I assured him. “But thanks for doubting me.”

And then I felt like the biggest jerk. He and his pregnant wife got out of bed at three thirty because I was texting and driving.

I’m so tired of my own drama. But Lark’s cautious hug feels pretty good nonetheless. “Where does it hurt?” she asks. “Besides your face.”

“Oh, my ribs. My neck. Pick a spot. And then there’s this.” I lift my right hand out from under the sheet to show her the cast on my wrist. When the car crashed I banged my hand on the dashboard and cracked a metacarpal bone. I have the X-ray to prove it.

“No! It’s not broken, is it?”

“It’s cracked,” my grandpa pipes up. “Had the same thing myself once when a cow stepped on me. Was my own damn fault for getting in her way.”

“Cracked and broken is kind of the same thing, right?” my little sister asks. Trust Daphne to always point out the dark side of everything.

We don’t get along.

“This is really going to slow down your Christmas knitting projects,” Lark says, kissing the tips of my fingers that are sticking out of the cast.

I smile for the first time all morning, because Lark is the first person to make a joke instead of looking at me like I’m terminal.

“Whoa!” a male voice says.

Eight heads swivel toward the doorway again. It’s our friend Jude this time. “Hey, Eeyore,” I say.

“Pooh Bear! I heard you broke a paw!” His face cracks into a silly smile. “Can I follow you home and hover over you and shove soup in your face every couple of hours?”

Everyone laughs but me, because it will only make my ribs ache. When Jude was laid up with a broken arm two years ago, I took good care of him on our family couch.

There are a lot of amazing people in my life. I swear I’ll appreciate them all a little bit more if I could only get out of this room and this hospital gown and just go home.

In the hallway outside my room there’s the sound of skidding feet. And then something collides with the doorframe. “Damn it. Ow.”

My heart seizes up as Alec’s face appears in the doorway. And when he sees me—and my colorful bruises—his eyes go red. He makes a terrible sound then—like a pained gasp. His hand flies up to cover his mouth.

This is about to get very awkward, and I have no one to blame but myself.

“I’m so sorry,” Alec rasps. His gaze is locked onto me. He enters the room like there’s nobody there except for me.

“It’s the fella that owns that speakeasy!” Grandpa cries. “The whole damn town is in here now.”

Alec doesn’t even hear him. “I knew you were driving, and I sent those texts anyway. I just had to have the last word.”

“Wait,” Griffin starts to say. “Selena sent those texts…”