Page 29 of You Had Me at Hockey

She gives a tiny grimace and hitches one shoulder. “I might want to post it on Instagram.”

I snap my mouth shut. “Uh, sure.” I pull out my phone and take a picture, then send it to her.

“Thanks.”

I pull up a chair and sit with her until the nurse comes back and checks things.

“The swelling’s going down,” she says cheerfully. “And your blood pressure is back up to normal.”

“They couldn’t even find my blood pressure at first,” Sara tells me.

Christ.

We spend a couple of hours here, and then they’re happy with how she’s doing and send her home. We have to take a taxi, but I find one outside the hospital and help Sara into the back of it.

She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “It feels good to feel better. Does that sound stupid?”

“No. I know what you mean.” I remember how good it felt to not be in pain. I get it.

The taxi ride home is swifter, with lighter traffic at this time of night. I pay the driver and hold Sara’s arm as we walk into her building. She’s barefoot, carrying her shoes because her toes were too swollen to get them on. I’m afraid she’s freezing. She greets the doorman and we take the elevator up to her apartment.

“I need to get warm,” she says. “Can you turn the fireplace on? I’m going to change.”

“Sure.”

She disappears through a door at the far end of the room.

I cross over and flick the switch for the gas fireplace. It blazes to life. Turning, I look around. Her apartment is bigger than mine. City lights glitter outside the big window. The place is untidy, with a Mac laptop on the coffee table and papers and sticky notes spread across a desk in the corner, but it’s kind of glam—a huge gray sectional in the corner strewn with pink and dark gray cushions, a few pendant lights hanging above it, a funky round white coffee table topped with light wood that matches the floor, and a couple of white molded plastic chairs. Her desk and a low TV stand are both glossy white.

I move over to two big framed pictures on the wall above the sectional. I’m not sure, but I think they’re images of her—black-and-white, one a partial image of her face, the other her from behind, sitting with her knees drawn up.

“Okay,” Sara says, returning. She’s wearing a pair of soft-looking gray leggings with a matching loose top and thick socks on her feet. She’s washed her face and brushed her hair, and big pink tortoiseshell glasses perch on her nose. She collapses onto the sectional. “Wow. That was a crazy night.”

“No kidding. Not at all what I planned.”

“I’m sorry.”

I hate it when things don’t go according to plan. Like being traded to another city. That’s why I plan everything—so I know what’s going to happen. But it seems really goddamn selfish to be upset about that when she nearly died. “All that matters is that you’re okay.” I pause. “I guess I should go and let you rest. Or…do you want me to stay and make sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. But stay.” She holds out a hand, and I sit down next to her and curl my fingers around hers. “Maybe it would be good to have someone here just in case.”

“Absolutely. I can stay as long as you want.”

Again, not my plan. But I can deal with it.

“Are you hungry?” she asks. “You didn’t get to eat your dinner.”

“I kind of am.” I’m surprised by that. “And that pork chop was delicious.”

She laugh-groans and leans back into the cushions. “I know. What a waste. We could order something in. Pizza?”

“Sure. That sounds great. I’ll just make sure there’s no hummus on it.”

She stands and pads across the room to where she dropped her small purse when we came in. She pulls out her phone and ambles back, looking at it. She drops back down onto the couch. “What kind of pizza do you like?”

“Anything.”

With a nod, she swipes and taps more and then sets down her phone. “Done.”

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