Page 94 of Faking All the Way
“Go,” Edward says immediately. “I’ll be fine. I can make my way back home on my own.”
I shake my head curtly, dismissing that immediately. “No. I’m not letting you walk back.”
When I scan the park again, my heart jumps as I spot a woman heading toward her car in the small parking lot. I recognize her. I’ve seen her around my dad’s neighborhood a few times when I’ve been over there working on stuff.
“Excuse me!” I call, already moving in her direction.
She stops, turning toward us with a slightly startled expression. She’s in her late fifties or early sixties, wearing a practical winter coat and carrying a reusable shopping bag from the grocery store.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Asher. This is my father, Edward Vaughn.” I gesture toward my dad, who’s still sitting on the bench. “He’s a neighbor of yours, I think? There’s been an emergency, and I really need to run. Would you be able to give him a ride home? It shouldn’t be too far out of your way.”
Recognition crosses her face as she looks at my dad. “Oh, of course. I’m Audrey Hurst. I live two houses down from you, Edward.” She looks between us with concern. “Is everything alright?”
“My girlfriend hurt herself,” I explain quickly, the word ‘girlfriend’ coming out automatically even though part of mybrain registers that I should probably be more careful about that. “I need to get to her.”
“Say no more.” Audrey is already setting down her shopping bag and moving toward us. “Come on, Edward. Let’s get you home safe.”
I help my dad up from the bench, making sure he’s steady on his crutches before Audrey takes his other side. Together we get him to her car, a sensible sedan that’s easy for him to get into. I watch for a second, making sure they’re situated and safe, then turn away.
“Thank you!” I call back to Audrey as I sprint toward my own car.
The drive back to the cabin feels like it takes forever, even though I push the speed limit every chance I get. Every red light, every slow-moving car in front of me, grates against my agitated nerves, making my stomach churn. I keep replaying Kat’s voice in my head, the strain in it. The way she tried to stay calm while admitting she was scared.
What gets me most is that she called me. Not her sister, who’s literally a nurse, not her parents.
Me.
The weight of her trust sits in my chest, pushing me to drive faster, to get to her as fast as I can.
When I finally pull into the driveway and burst through the cabin door, the sight of her makes my stomach drop hard.
She’s pale, way too pale, sitting on the kitchen floor with her back against the cabinets, legs pulled up. There’s a bloody towel wrapped around her left hand, pressed against her chest.
Seeing her scared and in pain hits harder than any bodycheck I’ve ever taken on the ice. Harder than any injury I’ve dealt with myself.
I drop to my knees beside her on the floor. “Hey. I’m here. Let me see.”
“I can’t tell if it’s still bleeding,” she whispers, and I can see the fear in her eyes, the way she’s trying so hard to hold it together. “I kept pressure on it like you said, and I wanted to check, but?—”
More color drains from her face at the mention of the blood, and I shake my head.
“It’s okay. I’m here now.” I carefully start unwrapping the towel from her hand. There’s a good amount of blood soaking the fabric, but it does look like the bleeding has slowed, thank fuck. “We’re going to take care of this.”
The cut is deep, running across her palm near the base of her thumb. A clean slice, the kind that comes from a really sharp blade. I’m pretty sure it will need stitches, probably more than a few.
“Can you move your fingers for me?” I ask gently, needing to check if there’s any nerve or tendon damage.
She demonstrates, wincing hard but managing to flex and extend each finger. The movements are stiff, clearly painful, but everything seems to be working the way it should.
“Okay, good. That’s good.” I reach for a fresh kitchen towel from the drawer, wrapping it carefully around her hand and applying firm pressure. “We need to get you to the hospital to get checked out and get some stitches.”
I help her to her feet, keeping one arm around her waist to steady her as she sways a little. After grabbing her purse from where it’s hanging by the door and checking quickly to make sure her insurance card is inside, I guide her carefully toward the door.
“Easy steps. I’ve got you.”
She leans into me as we walk to the car, and I can feel the way she’s favoring her injured hand, holding it carefully against her body.
