Page 5 of Concussion Protocol
“Girlfriend?”
His brow furrows.
“No roommate, so I’m assuming there’s a girlfriend that stays over? Is she going to be here soon?”
“Uh, no. There’s no girlfriend.”
Realization hits me as I flit around his kitchen, looking through his cabinets. I find a glass and fill it with water and hand it to him.
“So, either a friend is on their way here, or you lied to us about having someone to watch over you?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Jon. Head injuries are no joke. Even if the CT didn’t show any major swelling or bleeding, you could still have a concussion or damage that could show up after the injury. It’s important that you follow concussion protocol.”
Jon rubs a hand over his forehead, wincing. I dig through his cabinets and drawers some more until I find a bottle of over-the-counter pain medicine.
“I’ll get you settled and stay a little while. Mind if I crash on your couch?”
He blinks at me for a few moments. “Sure. But you can sleep in my bed.”
“Jeez. How easy do you think I am? You could at least offer to take me out first.”
The expression on his face is too much. It’s impossible to keep a straight face. “I’m fucking with you, Jon. I’m fine on the couch, I promise.”
“Uh…okay. But I, uh, I don’t want to take that,” he says, staring at the pills I’m holding out for him.
"Your head clearly hurts, and it’ll help you sleep.” I say, gesturing to the way he’s still massaging his temples. “Walking up all those stairs probably didn’t help. Seriously, who the hell builds stairs that steep?”
He chuckles, then swallows harshly and gives me a pitiful look."If I take that, I'll do something stupid or embarrassing, like get a boner again."
I snort a laugh. "It’s just acetaminophen. It won’t make you loopy. But also, you don’t need to worry about that. It doesn'tmean anything and happens more often than you think. Just a normal bodily reaction."
Jon shakes his head. "That's not normal for me."
My lips twist into a wry smile. "I promise I didn't think anything of it. Your straight card is still intact."
His eyes fall to his lap again, and I almost feel like I might have offended him. Instead of talking about it anymore, because the truth is I thought alotof things about it, I nudge the pills toward him. He stands and reaches for it, but then reels and pitches forward.
I manage to get between him and the corner of the granite island before he can hit his head. I'll have a bruise to show for my efforts, but that's better than him needing stitches on top of everything else.
"Shit! Are you okay?"
"All good. Just got a little dizzy." His face goes pale again, and he groans. "Oh, no."
Oh, no indeed. I know that look. Since I don't know where anything is in this damn place, I have to settle for aiming him at the kitchen sink. He doesn't get much up, but retches for long enough that I know there’s no way I’m leaving him.
Jon sputters some apologies, but doesn't complain when I lead him to the bathroom to help him get himself cleaned up. The room is stifling and cramped with the two of us filling up the small space. His chiseled chest heaves with heavy breaths, and I watch his nipples perk up in real time. I swear the heat radiating off his body is seeping into my bones and making me feel weak.
Keeping my face blank and my eyes studiously averted away from any part of his body, I help him out of his shirt and shorts, leaving him in his underwear. Part of me thinks I should stay while he brushes his teeth and uses the toilet, but I give him some privacy out of self-preservation. I leave the door open, but step away to refill his water glass and retrieve the pain pills.
His room is messier than the rest of the apartment, and it's clear this is where he spends most of his time when he's home. The large bed is rumpled, but the sheets seem clean. I arrange the covers, and when he’s done in the bathroom, gesture for him to climb in. I hand him the pills and the water, which he swallows down gratefully before lying down on the soft pillows. Neither of us makes eye contact, mostly because I’m doing everything I can not to look at him at all. It’s too easy to notice his muscular frame and all the skin on display. Instead, I cover him up to his chin with the comforter and set a trash can next to the bed, just in case. Then I tell him I’ll be just outside in the living room if he needs anything before I practically fly out of the room.
There is something very, very wrong with me to be thinking about a patient this way. A patient that is clearly not at his best or in his right mind. Even though I’ve refused to look at him or imagine all the delicious scenarios that want to play out in my head, the tension between us feels like a tangible thing. It crackles like static and fills the room with a heaviness I’ve never experienced before.
This is ridiculous. I’m exhausted and imagining things, surely. But since when am I like this? Has it been so long since I’ve gotten laid that I’d stoop to this level of pathetic?
I head back into the kitchen to clean up. I fish out some rubber gloves and bleach spray from under the sink and get to scrubbing, which calms my frantic brain some.
