Page 8 of Concussion Protocol
"Okay. Um, let me walk you out."
I move too quickly to get out of bed, and nearly trip over my own feet. Shane's eyes widen and he pushes back into the room to help me again, but I hold up my hand.
"I'm fine. I promise. I just… tripped. I pulled my hamstring a little at the game yesterday when I got hit, and it’s sore, but I'm good." Ugh. Now I’m just over-explaining and making it worse.Quit talking, Jon!
I straighten and walk him toward the door. He eyes me with concern and turns back to face me before I can turn the deadbolt. He opens his mouth to say something and then looks down at me. Both of us seem to realize my state of undress at the same time. I'm still only wearing boxer briefs. My cock twitches.
Down boy!
Shane averts his eyes and his cheeks turn pink in a way that makes me way too invested in this entire interaction. I don't want him to leave. Maybe ever.
"Are you sure you're going to be okay?"
I want to tell him no, that I need him to stay and take care of me some more. To just be here and talk to me, because I genuinely enjoy his company. Because he intrigues me and makes me feel warm and gooey inside.And hard on the outside.
Instead, I nod and open the door for him. "Thanks for everything, Shane."
"My pleasure. Just, uh, call me. If you need anything."
I close the door behind him, regretting everything the moment he's gone. All of a sudden, my apartment feels too big, too empty, too cold. I don't know Shane very well, but something about him makes everything…better. And after spending a night with him, even if it's a night I can barely remember, everything feels that much emptier without him.
A bright yellow pair of rubber gloves catches my attention, and I walk into the kitchen. It’s gleaming and smells strongly of bleach.
He cleaned my kitchen?
He drove me home after working overtime, hauled my heavy ass up the stairs in the rain, took care of my sloppy ass after I made it weird, and then cleaned up after me.
Who does that?
My eyes dart to the small marker board on the fridge, at his bubbly handwriting and the little smiley face he drew beneath his name and phone number.
It takes me too long to track down my phone, lying face down under the stack of discharge papers I was sent home with last night. There’s a bottle of acetaminophen sitting on the counter next to the papers, and I bark out a loud laugh. There’s a sticky note on the bottle with the words "boner pills". I laugh out loud and unlock my phone.
JON: Boner pills? Really?
I'm surprised when he answers me back almost immediately.
SHANE: I hoped you'd get a laugh out of it.
I type another message. Then delete it. Then type out another one. Then delete it again.
I don't know what I want to say to him. How can I properly thank him for everything he did for me, without making things too awkward or coming off like a pathetic waste of space?
SHANE: By the way, if you need a good massage therapist, I know a guy.
JON: Is it you?
I cringe as soon as I hit send. That was probably way inappropriate and going way too far.
SHANE: Don't tell me you're already dipping into the pills.
JON: I was hurting.
My phone rings, and I nearly launch it across the room.
"H-Hello?" I stutter into the phone. I pull it back to see the caller ID. "Shane?"
"If you're hurting, you can take the acetaminophen every four to six hours. Typical concussion protocol doesn’t recommend NSAIDs like ibuprofen, but?—"
