Page 38 of Villainous Summer

Grumbling, he threw the rag on top of his toolbox. “I’m going to check the shed. I might have a set in there.”

Alone in the garage, I took advantage of the moment to scroll to Cory’s account, liking random posts and commenting emojis under others. Since he’d have to make the first move, I’d wait for him to contact me.

A yelp screeched from the backyard.

Dropping my phone into the mesh cupholder, I rushed through the back door.

Van was sagging against the side of his shed, clutching his right foot. Sticking an inch or so out of the sole of his shoe was an old rusted nail.

“Oh God, what happened?”

“Fucking shed,” he gritted out. He pinched the long nail head and pulled it out, then let out a string of curses as blood dripped from his shoes onto his hands.

I thought he would drop the nail, but he held it up to his eyes as if it were an errant child.

The sight of his blood was making me queasy, and I had to steady myself against the shed.

“We should get you to urgent care.” I swallowed the vomit rising in my throat and kept my eyes on the sky.

If I were to have looked at his injury or even the nail for a moment longer, I could’ve gotten sick.

“It’s fine. It’s just a little poke.”

His aloof words were downplayed as his balance wavered.

“Nope. Not fine. I’m taking you to the hospital.” Before he could argue, I laced my arm around his waist and pulled him toward the house.

His shirt held the remnants of oil and grease, but an undercurrent of soap and lemon also lingered on his skin.

We walked slowly together. As we shuffled to my car, I turned away to avoid the temptation of his scent.

I bundled him into my passenger seat, having to reach between his legs to pull it all the way back for him.

At the wheel, I pulled out without checking behind me and almost T-boned an electric car with a coexist sticker.

The other driver laid on their horn as they swerved around me.

“You need me to drive?” he asked with a grimace.

“No. I’m fine.” This time, I checked my blind spots before pulling out onto the road.

His knees were high behind the dashboard.

“You can drive faster, you know. The speed limit is thirty-five here.”

A glance at the speedometer showed me it was going twenty-eight.

“Look, I’m a nervous driver, okay? So, be quiet, put pressure on that foot, and shush until we get there.”

When we arrived at the urgent care, I helped him out of the car, much to his grumbling that he could do it himself. I led him to sit on a purple vinyl couch and then checked him in with his wallet, then brought back a clipboard the receptionist had given me.

After I asked him about the cursory information, he scowled at me, grabbing the clipboard. “My hands work just fine. I can write my own answers.”

“Fine.” I threw up my hands. “Works for me.”

Minutes passed with the pen scratching paper and the click-clack of the receptionist typing on her keyboard.

I wished I had my knitting bag. My hands were itching to do something.

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