2. Dotty
Chapter 2
Dotty
“ T his one,” Zac says as he shoves his phone toward me.
I glance down to see he’s on a jewelry website, and he’s loaded a picture of an engagement ring. It has to be at least seven carats. The sparkle could blind a person up close.
“See what I mean?” I ask Martha miserably. I want to go back in time and undo this horrible mistake. I never thought I’d be the kind of person who hit someone else with their car.
Martha finally seems to the gravity of the situation because in her no-nonsense voice, she says, “Let’s take a seat in the back and get this sorted.”
Zac is swaying again so the two of us help into a room for patients. He settles onto the exam table when Martha tells him to sit, though she does have to tell him twice. Is he having trouble understanding people now? Which part of his brain did I damage?
Martha runs her fingers through Zac’s hair, feeling around his head gently. She talks as she works, “How is your head? Does it hurt?”
He pats his T-shirt, right over his heart. Something rattles with the slight motion. “There’s so much love in my heart. So much love.”
Martha glances down into the pocket of his shirt then snorts. “That’s not the only thing in there. Zac, can I talk to your girlfriend? Can I tell her about your health?”
He makes a circle with his fingers to indicate zero. “I have zero secrets from my soulmate.”
“That’s good. I’m going to talk to her over here,” she says and ushers me from the room.
We step down the hall, away from Zac’s room. When Martha speaks, there’s a thread of amusement in her voice. “He doesn’t have a brain injury. He’s high as a kite in a Georgia windstorm.”
I know I’m supposed to be a professional journalist and take everything I’m told in stride, but my eyes nearly bug out of my head. “Zac has a drug problem?”
“Not quite. He fell off stage two days ago. He’s pretty badly bruised, but Cash doesn’t think he broke anything. He prescribed him some painkillers and told him to stay off his feet for a week. Zac is a lightweight.”
I chew on my lip, processing what she said. “But how do you know I didn’t scramble his brain like an egg?”
She finally gives up trying to hide the amusement in her tone and full-on cackles. “Take it from me. The Maple boys are hard-headed.”
“But isn’t he supposed to go to the hospital for an evaluation or something?”
She shrugs. “I can tell him to go. You can too, but he won’t do it. He hates hospitals. Cash recommended he go for X-rays of his hip when this first happened. He’s probably got some nasty bruises by now.
Relief fills me. Maybe none of this is my fault. I happened to accidentally hit a cowboy when he was high. No, I’m probably still spending the night in jail. “You’re saying I didn’t hurt him?”
“How fast was your car going?”
“Maybe twenty miles an hour,” I offer. Jail is going to be miserable, but it’s the guilt that weighs heavy on me.
“Did he roll off the windshield or anything?”
I shudder at the thought. “No! He was standing there and then he kind of fell over. But I still hit him. Am I supposed to turn myself in? What’s the sheriff going to charge me with when we’re not even sure if he’s brain damaged?”
She thinks for a moment. “Well, his family and the sheriff are up the mountain, and cell service is spotty. He won’t go to the hospital no matter what we say, so don’t worry about that. Take your boyfriend home tonight. Watch over him. He’ll be fine by tomorrow morning.”
I nod, knowing she bought me a night’s reprieve. Babysitting the hot cowboy is a hundred times better than going to jail. Maybe tomorrow morning, he’ll even find this whole thing funny…or he’ll press criminal charges. “Right. I can do that.”
With far more confidence than I feel, I turn back to the patient’s room. When I push open the door, Zac is playing the drums on his leg with what appear to be tongue depressors. He looks up from his musical to smile broadly at me. “There’s my girl!”
“Where’s the pastor?” Zac frowns around his bedroom. OK, so maybe I got him back into my car by telling him a teeny, tiny fib.
Maybe I told him we were headed to the wedding chapel. It’s not my fault! It’s hard to maneuver a grown man into my tiny car so I bent the truth to get him to come along with me.
Now we’re back at his place, and I’ve convinced him to go into his bedroom. Martha insisted it was fine for him to sleep as long as I woke him every two hours.
“He’ll be here in the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep,” I tell him. She said the painkillers should wear off sometime in the night and he’ll be good as new by the time the sun rises. Then I’ll apologize to him and hope he doesn’t think I’d look good in stripes.
He tries to fight a yawn and loses. I could tell on the drive over here he was getting sleepy. “You have to call my mom. She’ll want to be there.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’d love to meet me,” I mutter as I fluff the covers on the messy bed. It looks like he tossed and turned last night, probably from the pain of the stage fall. Taking the medication must be why he was wandering around in a field instead of on the mountain helping the rest of his family. “Now, climb in.”
He flops onto the bed, and I cringe. That’s probably going to hurt again in the morning. But at least for now, he should be able to get some good sleep. Well, as much good sleep as he can get, figuring that I’ll be waking him.
“Lie down and close your eyes for a minute,” I encourage, pushing on his very big, very broad shoulder. I shouldn’t have the strength to move him at all, but he relaxes under my touch and puts his head on the pillow. He doesn’t close his eyes.
“You can only keep them closed for a minute then you have to open them and look at me again,” I remind him. I explained all of this earlier but given how spaced out he is, I figure another reminder can’t hurt.
He nods solemnly but still doesn’t shut his eyelids.
“OK, try really hard to squeeze them shut.” I tug the blankets up and over his large frame, wondering what it would feel like to crawl into bed beside him. He’s big all over, and I imagine him wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close.
“But then you’ll disappear.” He pouts, sticking his lip out like a kid. Martha said to expect odd behavior or statements since he’s on the medication.
Even though I shouldn’t, I reach forward and smooth the lines of his forehead. “No, I’ll still be here when you wake up, I promise.”
He sighs happily and finally closes his eyes. “Feels good,” he slurs.
I hum a soft tune under my breath as I continue touching his forehead, moving my hand back and forth across his warm skin. He’s so relaxed right now, not like the chaotic force of energy he usually is on stage.
I stay with Zac until his breathing is soft and even, then I turn out his lights.
I know I shouldn’t snoop through other people’s things, but I’m in Zac freakin’ Maple’s house. If there were ever a time to lean into my journalistic curiosity, it’s definitely now. I won’t write about anything I find, I’m not a total jerk. But I have a million questions about the hot country singer. Where does he get the ideas for all of those slow love ballads? What type of jam does he like with his toast?
“Huh, blackberry, just like me,” I mutter to myself as I spin around the jam jar in his fridge. Hardly breaking news.
He has an open-concept floor plan so I can see everything at once. His gleaming kitchen with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances is a chef’s dream. Next to the kitchen is a formal dining room with a big oak table and six chairs.
His living room is a typical bachelor pad with a big-screen TV and leather recliners. On his coffee table is his guitar and a handful of sticky notes, all with various phrases scratched on them.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I look around guiltily for Zac, relieved when he’s not nearby. I already have a string of alarms set two hours apart on my phone to wake him. It means I won’t sleep too much, but seeing as his head injury is my fault in the first place, I can’t complain. The text message is from my best friend, Sadie. She’s also on the mountain, helping with the storm cleanup.
Sadie: Checking in. Did you find Betsy?
Dotty: …Not quite.
Sadie: Ooh, did you find a better story?
I pause and hesitate. Sadie is dating Barrett, one of Zac’s older brothers. They’ll be worried if they hear that he’s been hit by a car. At least, I think families are supposed to be that way. Mine isn’t that great, but I know from what Sadie’s said that the Maple siblings are all close. They really seem to love each other.
Finally, I settle on a simple text.
Dotty: Something like that. I’ll tell you at book club. How are you doing?
Sadie : We’re tired but good. Reception is spotty. Should be back soon.
Dotty: Can’t wait to see you. *kiss emoji*
I wait for a few minutes, but I don’t get any more text messages from Sadie. I continue to search through Zac’s living room and eventually, his music room. While he seems to have a serious habit of scrawling ideas on sticky notes, there’s no deep, dark secret here.
“You’re the most boring celebrity I’ve ever met,” I mutter to myself as I slip into one of his flannel shirts. I wish I had my comfortable pajamas, but this will have to do. Not that I mind this. It’s soft and smells like Zac.
Despite the fact that I’m a big girl, the material drapes down to my mid-thigh. It’s decent so I skip the sweatpants of his I grabbed and opt for the shirt.
I roll up the sleeves and make his couch with a couple of extra blankets. I snagged them from his linen closet. Finally, I settle onto my makeshift bed and drift into a dreamless sleep.
I’m woken what feels like only minutes later by the alarm on my phone. I rouse Zac, making sure he knows who and where he is. I hope that’s good enough, especially because I’m so tired.
By the third alarm of the night, I’m so exhausted I give up on sleeping in the living room. Instead, I crawl into Zac’s bed next to him. Hopefully, when he wakes up tomorrow morning, he won’t feel like having me arrested for all the trouble I’ve caused him.