Page 14 of Small Town Swoo
I sniffed. Raised my chin. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, is that the game we’re playing?”
“You were the one who said we should forget it ever happened.” I lifted my shoulders. “And I have.”
“So the frosty treatment over the last eight years is because of something else?”
I finally looked at him. “I haven’t been frosty to you. I’ve barely seen you.”
“You’ve barelylookedat me,” he corrected. “We’ve been in the same room plenty of times since then, and I’ve never been able to get you to talk to me. The last words I heard out of your mouth were ‘I hate you.’”
I dropped my eyes to my towel-wrapped hand. “I don’t hate you. I was just embarrassed.”
“Still? After eight years?”
“You rejected me, Dash. Maybe you don’t remember what it’s like to be sixteen, but I do. Feelings are big. I know it’s not your fault that you didn’t feel the same way, but I can’t help it that I wasn’t okay for a while after you turned me down.”
His voice grew softer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but I didn’t think it would be right to...do that.” He nudged my foot with his. “So can we be friends now?”
“Friends?” I feigned shock. “A big Hollywood celebrity like you wants a nobody friend like me?”
“You’re somebody to me, Sugar. You always will be.”
A warm feeling engulfed me, flooding my limbs, pooling in my belly. Attention from him always did this to me. “Then I guess we can be friends. But you have to promise never to bring up that night again.”
“Deal.”
“Ariana DeLuca?” called a nurse.
I rose to my feet, and Dash stood too. “Do you want me to come back with you?” he asked.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say no, but then I thought about needles again. “Would you?”
“Of course.” He put his hand on my lower back and walked me toward the nurse. “I was coming no matter what you said.”
He stayed with me the entire time—through the intake process, in the triage area, and while the doctor examined my finger. When she decided I needed a few stitches, I immediately looked at him.
Getting up from the chair in the corner of the small room, he came over and put a hand on my back. “You’re okay.”
I looked up at him, dizzy with fear. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t. I promise.” His voice was calm and reassuring. “You don’t have to be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” I said, my voice cracking.
“I know you don’t like needles.” He rubbed my shoulder blade.
“How do you know that?”
“I heard you say it once. It stuck with me.”
The doctor, a woman with dark skin and close-cropped hair, worked quickly. It was over in a few minutes, and when I was bandaged up, the nurse gave me discharge instructions.
“Keep the finger dry for forty-eight hours,” she said. “After that, you can shower. No baths. Wash the area gently a couple times a day, and keep it elevated when you can. No strenuous activities that would cause it to reopen.”
“When can I get the stitches out?”
“One week,” the doctor replied, washing her hands at the sink. “You can take over-the-counter meds for pain, but if the pain gets a lot worse or you see signs of infection—the nurse will give you a list—come back right away.”
