Chapter Thirty-Three

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RIP James Gandolfini.  The acting world has lost another great. 

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jordan POV

Never thought I’d be sitting in an ER waiting room today with my best friend’s boyfriend because he beat the living shit out of someone that had hurt her, and she couldn’t take him because they would have suspected domestic abuse.  

Just not how I saw my day going.

Of course, when you lived in New York, and with Allison, weird shit tended to occur on a rather frequent basis.  

The cab ride to Roosevelt had been interesting in itself; Allison sandwiched in the back seat between Tyler and I like a parent mediating two kids or something.  He was pissed because he didn’t want the cab to start with; she was pissed because he fucking went off on the landlord—which couldn’t fault him on that one.  It may have been the only thing we agreed on, ever.  The cabbie either was blissfully unaware of surroundings, or did not find Tyler’s bloody attire to be an odd occurrence in his cab.  The hospital was only about a mile away, and we got there in decent time; faster than we would have walking.  

We dropped a resentful Allison off at the coffee shop across the street and then headed over to the ER.  

We were sidelined to the waiting room after checking him in because he was a “non-emergency” Emergency Room case, which seemed kinda fucked up to me—because why else do you go to an Emergency Room but for emergency care—but because his hand wasn’t falling off and he wasn’t spurting blood from a bloody stump, he was classified as “non-emergency.”  

By the rather steady stream of people coming in and out of the ER, I was guessing it was a busy emergency day, and we were gonna be here a while.  

There were sick people everywhere.  Sitting next to Tyler was an old man that was hacking up a lung, and I just hoped he didn’t have something contagious, because that was all both of us would need from this little jaunt.  The little girl sitting across from us kept waving to me and smiling.  Tyler didn’t really seem to take much of anything in.  He had his head back against the wall, eyes closed, and his arm was tucked into his stomach now after some kid had accidentally bumped it when he ran past us and Tyler had just about jumped out of the chair.  He sort of looked like he’d been in a car accident.  His shirt was bloodied in spots and if it wasn’t for the knuckles, I probably could have lied my way into getting him seen quicker that way.  He was either trying for meditative pain management, or he was trying to just zone out from the environment.  

I was sort of pissed off at the nursing staff.  There wasn’t really a question if anything was broken in his hand—you could plainly see the indent in his last knuckle, and it was all bruised and swelling—and no one had thought it was a good idea to get him ice or anything.  The ice pack that I gave him at the apartment had unfortunately been left there, and I finally got up and asked for one, dropping it in his lap when I came back.  

He cracked an eye open first and then slowly opened both and moved his head down to look at it before he snatched it and rested his hand on it.  “Thanks.”

I nodded, sighing, and grabbed a magazine off of the table next to me.  When I glanced back at him, his head was back against the wall again.  He looked tired.  I wondered if he’d been up all night with Allison when she made it to his apartment, but I didn’t ask.  

There was a baby that had come in a while after us, obviously sick, and he started wailing at a pitch that was incredibly headache-inducing.  That sort of put the kibosh on Tyler’s attempt at napping or zoning.  

He shifted in the chair instead, groaning quietly, and I cut my eyes over to him, but he wasn’t looking at me.  I decided to be nice.  Because, ya know, he had beat up the asshole that hurt my friend and all.  “You doin’ ok?”

His voice was gravely when he answered tiredly, “Yeah.”

“Pretend you’re having a heart attack.  We might get outta here faster.”

He sort of scoff-laughed, and let out a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

Hmm.  I expected more of a retort than that honestly.  I tossed the magazine back on the table, distracted.  “Hey, I should apologize for adding to your injuries.”

He swiveled his head in my direction, appraising. “Yeah, you should.”

I smirked.  There was a whole lot in those three words.  He wasn’t subtle, that was for sure.  I pursed my lips, deciding I probably owed him this much.  “Yeah.  So, I’m sorry.”

He scoffed. “Yeah.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Hey.”

His eyebrows went up. “Hey?  Seriously?  What the fuck do you want me to say?  That it’s just ok that you assumed that it had to be me that fucked her up?  And it’s just ok that you started throwing punches without so much as a question?  That’s not ok.  That’s not ok that I was your first thought.  And like I’d come back to her apartment then after I did that?”

“Listen, Tyler—I don’t know you at all.  All I know about you is what she tells me, and that hasn’t been much in the last few months.  And I’ve seen her come home with bruises before and let the asshole that did it trail in right behind her.  So, yes, that was my first reaction, because protecting her will always be my first reaction.  You don’t have to like it, but I’m not apologizing for the reaction.  I’m apologizing because you didn’t do anything, and I was wrong about that.”

I could tell he was taking in information he didn’t know; it was just written all over his face.  And for a minute, he didn’t know what to say.  Part of me felt like that was probably a bit of a betrayal, because I didn’t air any of our dirty laundry, no matter who it was.  The other part acknowledged that there was shit Tyler didn’t know, or realize, and there were probably things he should have.  I didn’t know how much he knew, but that was obviously not something she shared yet.

“That’s still not fair.”  He shook his head.  “And the shit she may have told you about me; there’s no way that I ever came across as some asshole who’d beat her.  I’ve done everything I possibly can to make sure she’s ok.  And I’ve been patient as hell.  And I never asked her for anything.”

“Aww, you want a medal?  That’s how it should be.”

“Jesus Christ.  It’s completely pointless talking to you.”

“Truth hurts?”

He let out a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you just go wait in the coffee shop with Allison.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Because I told her I’d stay with you and make sure you know what needs to be done about your hand.”

“I can handle that myself.”

“She wouldn’t want me to leave you alone.”

“Well I’d really like it if you left me alone.  So feel free.”

I couldn’t help it.  I was smirking.  Because he was basically seething in the chair there; his body all tense, and he was deliberately trying not to look in my direction.  Like a pouting kid.  I tried to wipe the smirk off before I started talking again.  “She’ll be pissed at me if I leave.  So I have to stay.  And you’ll just have to put up with me.”

“Whatever,” he said quickly, dismissively.

I went back to smirking, and he went back to his seething, and it went on like that for quite a while.  

Apparently, he wasn’t done though, because eventually he said in a really quiet voice, “I would never hurt her.”  

He seemed less boiling with anger.  Actually he seemed kinda just…done.  

I sighed in response.  

So he turned his head toward me again.  “Never.”

Fucker.  Ya know, it would have been much easier if he was just an asshole—if he did beat her, because then he could just be written off as the next asshole in an endless succession.  I wasn’t sure if it was better or worse if he wasn’t.  On the one hand, if he was an asshole, it would hurt her in the end.  But it ended.  Eventually.  They always ended eventually.  And moving on sucked, but it was sort of just the way things had always worked out—assholes were the only ones around, yadda, yadda, same old story.  But on the other hand, if he wasn’t, and things just didn’t work out, she’d be hurt more.  An emotional hurt that I didn’t think she really ever had before.  That scared me more.  I didn’t begrudge her a boyfriend, and I didn’t want to stall her happiness, but the idea of her being genuinely happy, and then universally crushed; I wasn’t sure how she’d come back from that.  She’d revert back to something that I hadn’t seen in a long time.  

And in a lot of ways, I was sure this new Allison—the one that was slowly coming out of the shell she lived in—had a lot to do with Tyler’s presence.  It was funny—she really wasn’t so much coming out her shell as coming into herself.  She’d basically been the shell; no substance, just surface.  

I loved the girl.  There was just something about her.  

I hadn’t answered Tyler, and I was sort of lost in my own analyzing of him, but he’d been watching me the entire time.  “Who hurt her before?”

I shook my head. “Not my story to tell,” I told him quietly.

His eyebrows lifted once in answer, sort of rolling his eyes at me.  I mean, I wasn’t sure what he thought exactly.  That I’d spill any story he wanted?  That wasn’t going to happen.  “How did you meet her?” He followed that up quickly with, “Or is that a matter of stripper national security, too?”

I smirked.  I suppose that wasn’t telling him anything that wasn’t mine to tell.  “I lived in Vegas pretty much my whole life.  My dad was a casino worker.  Mom was a knock-off showgirl.  I suppose that’s how I fell into stripping.  My sister and I lived together until there was drama, and I moved out.  I’d been thinking about moving anyway; was sort of gearing up, saving money.  It’s hot as fuck in Vegas.  I mean, it’s in the fucking desert.  I wanted a change, and the rent kept going up more and more—people were moving in from California.  It was just time for me to move on.  Allison got a job in the same strip joint I was working in.  She was full of attitude.  Angry.  We weren’t really friends, but like all strip joints, you kinda look out for each other.  You don’t really hang together, but you’ve got each other’s backs if it’s necessary.  Our first impressions hadn’t actually been great.  She stole my shift, the little bitch.”  

He didn’t interrupt me at all.  Totally waited until I was smiling at the end of my recollection.  

“If you weren’t friends, why did she move with you?”

“You’re fishing, Tyler.  You’ll have to go fish in Allison’s pond for those answers.”

He didn’t press for answers; that much was true about him; Allison had said as much.  And I think he got that I wasn’t going to play an Allison Q&A with him.

Instead he asked, “Why are you convinced I’m such an asshole?”

Why indeed?  I sort of wished I could have really answered that.  Answered the big question about why she moved with me and told him about the first night I really knew Allison.  It was probably the worst night of her life.  Pimp Damon and all his fucking friends.  I’d been so annoyed when she hadn’t shown up for her shift, and the boss had made me go to her apartment to check on her like I was her fucking keeper or something.  Her apartment was such a shithole.  Not that I lived in the best digs, but compared to hers, it was a mansion.  She hadn’t answered the goddamn door, and I had to bribe the landlord to let me in.  She didn’t answer when I called out, but I could hear the shower running, and I just got tired of being ignored and waltzed right in there.  

I found her in the shower, all right.  I still have no idea how long she’d been in there.  The water was past freezing, she was shaking uncontrollably, but was completely catatonic.  I couldn’t get her to talk to me for hours, and had no idea what had put her in that state.  

So walking into the same kind of thing two years later wasn’t exactly settling me into the idea of Tyler being such a nice guy.  Catatonic was catatonic.  People didn’t go all catatonic from nothing.  And as he’d been the one to fucking come and get me like he was confessing to making her that way—didn’t exactly make me want to cozy up to him.  

The main problem was that I didn’t know him.  And I didn’t know how much of what Allison was telling me was good was actually good.  It wasn’t that I didn’t think she knew the difference, exactly.  It was just that any level of positivity for her was so unexpected, so different than the norm, that it might not have been inherently good, and she still would have thought it was better than what she knew; and therefore good.  She was so inexperienced with decency.  And the Allison I met in Vegas had been so blank.  Like looking at glimpses of the real her that was somewhere locked inside.  Pieces.  Nothing concretely her, or definable.  Like ether.  No identity beyond what was necessary for survival.  There was really no personality there, just surface emotions.  So telling her that her boyfriend might potentially just be a different kind of abuser wasn’t going to go over well, and it would have been insulting for me to say that.  I was just worried for her.

So until she basically had the equivalent of a nervous breakdown over attempting sex with him, I’d been really, really, really bitchy.  And completely unsupportive.  And I wasn’t sure the route that I was taking during the catatonia recovery was the right one—I basically agreed with her.  Not necessarily because I was convinced myself that Tyler was great and wonderful and amazing, but because I couldn’t add any more stress for her at that moment.  

And part of me was jealous.  That was totally true.  Because if she found someone great, the bond that we built over the last year living together wasn’t as necessary anymore.  And that was a wonderful fucking step—it was great to see her actually becoming a definable person—but it also left me flailing for where I fit in there, and as I didn’t have a current wonderful, great guy, it was just… It kinda sucked.  And then, if he did turn out to be a real dick, I didn’t know where we went from there.  Because she’d assume she had no skills whatsoever in choosing guys.  I think it’d actually turn out worse for our friendship if he was an asshole; because then there might be resentment on top of the heartache.

It was so hard to know what was good for her.  She wasn’t my kid, I couldn’t treat her like that, and I had no right to tell her anything.  But I’d been a good friend.  And in so many ways, she was still childlike in that she missed out on so many things.  She was a far cry from a child because of all those fucked up situations, but she’d never gotten to be a child, so the innocence that poured off of her in a backwards way was something I felt the need to protect.  She made you want to protect her. 

Outside as tough as nails; inside fragile and broken and extremely vulnerable.  Susceptible to coercion.  And if he was taking advantage of that, there’d be hell to pay. 

Raw.  She was always so raw. 

I hadn’t given him an answer yet.  And he was still just staring me down.  He didn’t wait for one then.  “I love her.”

I thought I was a pretty good judge of character normally.  I might have judged him a little unfairly. 

“I don’t want to change her.  And I don’t care what she’s done in the past.  I don’t care about the prostitution.”

Well, that was a surprise.  Since the last time Allison and I had talked about shit, she was deathly afraid of that little nugget slipping out, and obviously that had spilled at some point.

“I just want her to be happy.  And I think I can make her happy.”

There was no showy reason to tell me this now.  We were in the middle of a fucking ER waiting room with no one here to give a fuck about his speech.  It was just for me.  Seemed like a long way to go for just my opinion change. 

“And she’s not ready to hear any of that, but it doesn’t change anything for me.  I’ll wait for however long she needs.”

I didn’t really even know what to say.  I was surprised, to say the least.  We spent so much time trying to one up each other that who we really were sort of just got lost in all of that.  But we wanted the same things for her. 

“Hawkins… Tyler,” droned out of a nurse, and broke both of us out of whatever thinking/staring match we had going on.  I was sort of relieved for the break.  Because I needed time to think before I could actually say anything back to that. 

The nurse led us back into an exam room and did the whole nurse-bit; blood pressure, temperature, pulse.  She was pleasant, I suppose.  Efficient.  Slightly too cheery given that we’d been sitting in that waiting room for however-the-fuck-long.  We must have waited another half hour or more for an actual doctor to come in.  I’m pretty sure Tyler actually took a nap.  When no one appeared after the nurse left, he finally just laid down on the table and closed his eyes.  I was still trying to process, and he really didn’t seem keen on more chatting.  I think he sort of said what he wanted to, and that was the end of it.  

When the doctor finally managed to show up, it was sort of hilarious how long he was actually in the room with us.  He cleaned up Tyler’s cheek without really saying much, and did the whole scrunchy-analytical face while he looked at his hand, prodding and pushing while Tyler hissed and grunted at the pain.  When he brilliantly said, “Well, it looks broken to me,” I actually couldn’t even contain my noise of appalled amusement.  The doctor ignored me.  “I’m going to order an x-ray, have a tech bring in the machine, and then we’ll go from there, but from the swelling, discoloration, and the sunken spot here where you’re knuckle should be, I’m thinking metacarpal fracture.”

“Yeah, ok.”  Tyler was obviously capable of less sarcasm than I was at the moment.  I really wanted to just kind of say, Yeah, duh—we got that part.

The second visit from the doctor was about as fast as the first after the x-ray was taken.  It took a while for the film to come back and basically he came in the room, he shoved the film up on the light box, said, “Yep—see right here?  The fifth metacarpal is fractured here,” pointed to it on the screen, which I’m not sure Tyler was even paying attention to, and then was all, “I’m going to call in a hand surgeon just to make sure there’s nothing I’m missing.”  And then left.  

Seriously?  

It was about this same time I started getting twilling text notifications.

I pulled my phone out, and was not surprised to see it was from Allison.

the fuck is taking so long????

Tyler’s eyes had darted to me when the phone had gone off, and I looked up at him.  “She’s getting impatient.”

He shrugged.

I texted back: we were in the waiting room forever.  waiting on the hand surgeon now.

I got back surgeon!? almost immediately.  

just the dude who specializes in hand injuries.  chill.  he’s fine.

how much longer?

God, if she was gonna do this until we got out of here, it was gonna be really annoying.  Like the are we there yet? of hospitals.  

we don’t know yet.  hopefully not too much longer.  i’ll keep you posted.  how’re you holding up?

worried.  

he’s fine.  just a flesh wound.

The door opened and who I assumed was the hand surgeon walked in.  That’d been faster than I thought it would be.  I texted quick doctor’s here.  i’ll let you know what’s up as soon as we do.

“So… Hello… Tyler,” he said, looking at the chart, nodding hello to me. “I’m Dr. Unis.  They tell me you have a metacarpal fracture,” he continued, looking at the x-ray.  

Tyler didn’t say anything.

“Is that right?” the doctor asked, looking at him.

“Yeah, that’s what it feels like.”

He smiled. “Let’s see if that’s what it feels like to me, too, shall we?  That’s certainly what it looks like.”  He took the ice pack off of Tyler’s hand, which I realized was probably pretty useless and not even cold anymore, and pressed on his knuckle, which got the customary hiss from Tyler.  I moved a little closer to see what he was doing next because no one else had done anything else.  He held onto Tyler’s wrist and pushed his little finger back into the knuckle.

Tyler just about jumped off the fucking table.  

“Painful, huh?”

The look on Tyler’s face was so fucking funny.  “Yeah,” he said in this terse, barely contained tone.

The doctor smiled at him again. “Make a fist for me.”

Tyler complied and it looked like his little finger was bent in more; like it wasn’t bending straight at all, and it looked really stiff.

The doctor nodded.  “Good.  Ok—your pinkie has some rotation in it, that’s why it’s bending inward towards your thumb like that.  It’s fairly normal for this type of fracture, and not too concerning to me at the moment because it’s only the affected finger, and you have no open wounds from the injury.  I’d be more concerned if it was affecting other metacarpals.”

“Ok.”

“We call this a boxer’s fracture,” the doctor provided, gesturing to his hand again.  

Tyler just nodded and I mean, it wasn’t like you could really have a great response to what the doctor was saying, but I think he was also just getting tired of being here, and being talked at.

“A lot of doctor’s refer to it as a brawler’s fracture instead, because boxers aren’t likely to get this type of injury.”

I snorted.  I couldn’t help myself.  And the doctor smirked and winked in my direction.

“Typically, these types of fractures are common when someone punches a wall or punches someone else and doesn’t have the fist tightened all the way.”  The doctor paused, turning on the stool he was sitting on to get something out of a drawer.  “Which did you do?”  Tyler didn’t answer right away, so the doctor added, “The wall must have been a pretty worthy opponent to hit the rest of your face.”

I chuckled, and Tyler threw me a glare.  I loved this doctor.

Tyler cleared his throat.  “Yeah, I hit someone else.  The wall didn’t bite back.”

The doctor nodded.  “You normally know how to throw a punch?”

“Pfft.  Yeah.” Tyler nodded.  “I was distracted.”  He looked over at me with the best the fuck!? look.  

“Well, next time you’re gonna deck someone, make sure you tuck all your fingers in, or better yet, wrap your hands first to stabilize.  And make sure you don’t do it for at least six months, or you’re gonna be back to see me, and we’ll be having a different kind of discussion about treatment, ok?”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah, ok.”

“This isn’t a bad break as they go; the neck of the metacarpal is fractured, but it’s a little out of alignment, so I’m going to have to move it into the correct position before we can set it.”

“What does that mean?”

He turned with a needle. “It means I’m going to numb your hand, and push the bone back where it needs to go.”

Tyler nodded tiredly, sighing. 

“There were a few small fragments that I could see on the x-ray, but splinting it should ensure it heals in the correct position and those shouldn’t be a problem.”

He got to work numbing Tyler’s hand, sticking him twice with the needle and then sat back to wait for a minute while it took effect.  He grabbed a splint while he waited, bending a piece of metal to the right angle and then checked the x-ray.  “How’s your hand feeling?”

“Best its felt all day.”

He checked by pushing Tyler’s pinkie again, and this time got no reaction, so he was good to go.  It was sort of fascinatingly gross watching the doctor align the bones.  He was done in a few seconds, the only discernible thing a small popping noise that was probably not something I wanted to explore. 

“The splint is angled so that your finger stays in the correct position and heals the right way.”  It had Velcro straps, and looked easy enough to get on and off. 

“How long does he have to wear that?” I asked.  Questions were obviously my department as Tyler wasn’t asking any. 

“Most likely three weeks.  I’d like to do a follow up in a week, and if it looks like it’s healing well, we might be able to lose the full splint and just buddy tape the fingers.  I’m guessing it might be longer than that, but we’ll see how it is next week.”

“What’s the long-term prognosis?”

He finished securing the straps and let Tyler try out the mobility.  It looked clunky.  He didn’t look too happy about it.  “Prognosis is good—most people are out of the splint in three weeks, some physical therapy for range of motion and strengthening in weeks four to six.  Until next week, he should ice it for the swelling.”  He turned back to Tyler. “You can take the splint off to shower, and when you do try to move the joints a little so they don’t get tighter.  We find that people that make sure there’s some movement while it’s in the splint have less complications later.  If you just leave it in the splint with no movement—that can actually mean forcing surgery to correct it where it wasn’t necessary before.  So try to get a little bit of motion, but of course, don’t overdo it.”

“What can he take if it hurts?”

“Over-the-counter ibuprofen should be fine normally.  I’ll write a prescription for something stronger today and for the next few days.  Immobilizing the break usually makes the most difference with pain, so it shouldn’t be too bad.  The ibuprofen will also keep swelling down.  A lot of people have more pain at night with hand injuries—they tend to throb a lot.  If that happens, sleeping with your arm above your heart can help alleviate that.  It’s kind of awkward, but when you’re trying to sleep, it works.  If you lose feeling at all, or experience any numbness after this initial one has worn off, call me immediately.”

It’s a good thing I was getting this and taking mental notes, because Tyler was totally zoning and just nodding where appropriate. 

The doctor turned to me because I think he realized the same thing.  “No heavy lifting, gripping, or contact sports for at least three months.  Pain can last up to that time along with stiffness.  He’ll be prone to re-injury if he starts throwing punches without stabilization.  The sunken look of the knuckle usually does not go away, but it’s cosmetic and normal functional is usually fine.  But you should know it will most likely look like that from now on.”

I nodded. “Got it.”

“Tyler?  I’m serious.  No fights.  This one’s relatively moderate.  Doing it again could mean pins and plates.  Surgery.  Long physical therapy.  Never getting function back.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Ok.  Prescription.” He handed off the sheet to Tyler.  “You should be able to have that filled in the Pharmacy here so you don’t have to go anywhere else.  Stop there and at the registration desk on your way out to make an appointment for next week.”

“Fuck,” I said under my breath, because I’d just remembered that Tyler had taken a few punches elsewhere, and if I didn’t have that checked, too, Allison was gonna be pissed.  “What about your ribs?”

If looks could kill, I’d be dead.  The doctor looked between the two of us for a second, before focusing on Tyler.  “Do you have other injuries?”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head.

“Just let him look quick.”  I got more glaring.  I raised my eyebrows. “You wanna go back to her without having them checked?  She’ll make you turn around.”

Tyler huffed out a breath. “Ugh.  Fine.”

The doctor gestured. “Lift up your shirt.”

Tyler complied, throwing daggers my way the entire time, and the doctor ran his fingers over the bruising on Tyler’s ribs.  “Mmm… I don’t think any are broken.  Only an x-ray could say for sure, but they look more bruised than broken.”

Tyler stuffed his shirt down. “Good. Yeah. There.  Done.”  My phone trilled again; more Allison impatience.  I’d wait until the doctor left to check it. 

The doctor smiled at me, and then at Tyler.  He was really sincere.  Tyler could have been a little bit more conversational.  “Take it easy today, ok?  I’ll see you next week.”  He winked at me on the way out. “Try to keep him outta trouble.”

“I’ll try.  Thanks.” I waved.  I grabbed my phone. 

fucking hell, is he ok?

he’s fine.  full of charm.  doc just left.  we still have to make a follow-up appt and stop for a prescription.  i’ll text when we’re done at the pharmacy.  i’ve got all the info for what he’s allowed to do and shit. 

“You ready?” I asked Tyler after putting my phone away.

He was sort of zoning out again, and it took him a minute to realize I was talking to him.  “Hmm?  Yeah.”

It was evident when he got off the table and just stood there, that I was supposed to know where the appointment desk and the Pharmacy were.  I had a sarcastic remark all prepared about not being his keeper and shit, but he actually looked even more tired than he had before, so I just let it go.  I pushed him through the registration desk, like, literally almost held his hand, like a fucking go-between translator for him and the receptionist.  Like they both didn’t speak English.  Does Wednesday at 10 work?  Tyler?  Yo, pay attention here.  Focus.  Wednesday?  10?  Do you work that day?  Any reason you can’t make it then?  I finally just booked the fucking appointment and when he was awake later he could change it if he needed to.  He was Allison’s ultimate responsibility.  She’d have to make sure he made the appointment.  I was already above and beyond the call of duty here.  

The Pharmacy was sort of like a mini ER waiting room.  Like everyone that had been in the ER was either funneled out the exit, or channeled here and then the exit.  I shoved Tyler into a chair and took the prescription up there myself.  He was basically useless at this point.  They told me it could be like another fucking half hour wait if traffic kept up like it was, and I was just oh so happy about that.  

I pulled out my phone angrily and texted Allison quickly, they’re saying up to another half hour wait on the meds.  i seriously hope they’re fucking kidding.

I wasn’t surprised when she replied back a second later, people probably die waiting for shit there!

no shit!  i think i’ve lost years sitting here with him.

There was a small break before her next text, but I knew what was coming.  how is he?

I took a minute before I answered her, studying him while I walked back to where I shoved him to wait.  I just kept telling her he was fine, and I mean, he was...  i think he’s crashing.  he looks really tired.  not talking much now.

thanks for doing this Jordan.

yeah, i am an awesome friend.  you should remember that.  especially when i want something.

I was teasing her, but she still responded with: i will.

I parked him by a wall on purpose, and I wasn’t surprised when I dropped into the seat next to him that he was dozing with his head against it.  He grunted but didn’t otherwise acknowledge me.  

I sighed, turning my head to look at him.  I didn’t think he was really sleeping.  Just resting.  And I hadn’t been lying, he really didn’t seem to be in a talkative mood.  But I had shit I needed to say to him, so he’d just have to put up with me.  “So…you love Allison,” I said quietly.  

His head swiveled in my direction and he opened his eyes slowly, blinking at me.  “Yeah, I love her,” he said just as quietly.  “You know what I don’t get?”

“What?”

“You fucking pushed her to date me in the first place.  Why did you do that if you thought I was an asshole?”

“I don’t know if I ever really thought you were an asshole.  I was wary, ok?  I didn’t know what your intentions were at all.  For all I knew you were some rich kid looking to go slumming with a Hell’s Kitchen girl.  And in my defense, within an hour of knowing you, we were arrested,” I reminded him.

He bobbed his head back and forth a few times. “Ok.  Touché.  I’ll give you that one.  But why have your friend date someone that got you both arrested?”

I let out a breath loudly. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t supposed to fall in love with her.  You were supposed to be good for her to experience.  A real dating experience.  You were supposed to be a few throwaway dates and then she’d be ready to date someone for real.  Or be on the path, or whatever.  I never thought it would last.” I waved him off.  “And I suppose when it did, that annoyed me.  A lot.  And I think I was a little bit jealous of that, too.  That you were decent from what she was saying, but I never really weighed out the positives she was telling me.  I was happy to stay wary in case.”

He blinked at me.  “Oh.”

I made the facial expression equivalent of Eh, sorry! 

He scoffed out a chuckle.  “That actually makes much more sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah.  Because otherwise you were just a whacked-out psycho stripper with a split personality.”

I laughed at his assessment, and then smiled, sighing heavily. “Well, it doesn’t really excuse anything.  So… I’m sorry.  Really.  For all of it.” I waved a hand.  “And I’m sorry for today.  For thinking the worst of you.  You’re right—it wasn’t fair.  And I’m sorry that I made shit worse.”

He nodded.  “Thank you.”  I think he was satisfied with my answer.  The he shrugged, smirking at me. “What was one more injury?”

“Just one?”

“There were probably two or three.”

“That’s better.  I wouldn’t want to be short-changed.”

“You can pack a punch, I’ll give you that.  Where you learn that?”

“Picked it up along the way.”

 “I don’t doubt it.”

One (Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three) | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two | Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five | Twenty-Six | Twenty-Seven | Twenty-Eight | Twenty-Nine |  Thirty  |  Thirty-One  |  Thirty-Two  |  Thirty-Three  |  Thirty-Four  |