Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Lucy
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
I drop my head into my hands. This is officially the worst day of my life. Top five, at the very least. I’ve heard horror stories about the cost of ambulance rides, and now there are tests, an ER visit, and the very real possibility that I might have just wrecked my career before it even started.
My head pounds. My ankle throbs. My stomach twists every time I glance at the swelling, which doesn’t help the constant churning nausea. It looks like I’m smuggling a tennis ball under my skin.
My heart slams against my ribs. My breath catches, hitches. Lips tingling. Eyes watering.
What am I going to do?
Like, for real…
What am I going to do?
The curtain scrapes open, and my nurse—Talia, I think she said her name was—steps in. She pauses when she sees me, brow furrowing in concern.
“Hey…” Her voice is low and kind, and she places a warm hand on my arm. Her long braids fall forward as she leans in to meet my eyes. “Talk to me. What’s happening?”
“I can’t breathe. I just…” I open my mouth to finish the sentence, but the words won’t come.
What is this? Who is this? Lucy Calder isn’t a panic in public kind of person.
“Okay. I want you to purse your lips and breathe out hard, like you’re blowing out a candle. Can you do that for me?”
I nod, shaky.
“Deep breath in… now out.”
We do it together. Once. Twice. Three times.
The tightness in my chest starts to ease. The walls stop closing in. Air finally feels like air again.
“Better?” she asks.
I nod weakly.
Talia squeezes my arm, kindness radiating from her presence. “Dr. Kincaid is a very talented man, but his bedside manner leaves room for improvement.”
I huff. “It’s not him. I mean, not really. He is kind of gruff, though.” And wildly good looking, if you can get past that jaded, I-know-more-than-you-and-won’t-pass-up-the-chance-to-make-sure-you-know vibe.
“Honey, gruff happens on a good day.”
The way she says it makes me snort—an actual snort—which I absolutely did not mean to do, but it weirdly helps.
My shoulders drop a fraction.
Then reality punches me again.
“I’m just…” I rub my temples. “It’s the tests. The ambulance. The fact that I don’t have insurance yet. I mean, I just got the job, but rehearsals haven’t even started, so… no paycheck.”
Talia perks up. “Rehearsals? You a singer?”
“Dancer.” I shake my head and instantly regret it as pain lances through my temple. “I just landed my first real break. Touring with Sandro René.”
Her eyes go wide with recognition before they dart to my ankle. She schools her expression, but I catch it anyway—the flicker of concern, the subtle shift. That flicker is what does me in. Something in me folds. Hope deflates like a children’s balloon as reality sets in.
“How bad is it?” My voice rises. “I mean, I’ll be fine, right? Just a couple days off, then I can start using it again?”
She hesitates. “We’ll know more when we get the results from those tests Doc Gruff ordered.”
I try to smile. I really do. But I’m too busy reading between the lines.
If I can’t dance, I can’t work.
If I can’t work, I don’t get paid.
If I don’t get paid, how am I supposed to afford any of this?
This would be bad if I hadn’t already quit my other jobs. Losing the tour? Catastrophic.
The panic flares again. Breath catching. Vision narrowing—
“I know this is a lot.” Talia steps closer and, strangely, I want to ask for a hug.
“You’re hurt. You’re scared.” She glances at the monitor, then back at me.
“We can’t give you anything too strong just yet—not until we know what’s going on in that head of yours—but how about something for the nerves? Just to take the edge off?”
I nod even though I’m not a big fan of pharmaceuticals. They usually hit me harder than other people. But I’d rather be too relaxed than totally freaked out. She disappears for a few minutes, then returns with a syringe and a small IV push.
“Dr. Kincaid approved a little something for you,” she says. “This’ll work fast.”
As the medicine flows through me, warmth creeps into my chest, down my arms, and out to my fingertips. Like floating. Like silence.
I blink at the ceiling and sigh. “Okay. That’s… better.”
“That’s the idea.” She smooths the blanket over me with quiet care then asks, “Is there someone you want to call to come be with you?”
I nod. “My friends, Stella and Gabby.” I glance over at the chair where my phone’s tucked into my purse. “I think my phone’s exploded. They probably called me a dozen times before I could tell them what happened.”
I don’t even want to think about what will happen when I tell my parents.
If I tell my parents. It might be better for all of us if they never know.
“Good. That means you can just relax and let everyone else take care of you for a while.”
She winks and leaves me in peace, just as I’m wheeled off for scans.
By the time I’m back in my little ER room, the meds are fully working their magic. No, I don’t know what the future holds, but that’s a problem for Future Lucy. Present Lucy is warm. Floaty. Calm.
The curtain swishes open and Dr. Kincaid steps inside.
Wow. Like really… wow.
Capital W. Capital O. Capital W.
I mean, I saw him earlier. Obviously. But something about the lighting now? Or maybe it’s the way he moves? Or the fact that he’s the only person not looking at me like I might break in half?
Tall. Broad shoulders. Tousled brown hair with a bit of curl. Square jaw. Serious eyes. Older than me—but he wears it like a compliment, not a concession. Earlier, his confidence made him seem like a jerk. Now? Something about it makes me feel safe.
I blink. Might be the meds, but for a second, I forget where I am. He looks like someone from a movie. Or a dream. Or one of those stories where the girl gets rescued and doesn’t mind one bit.
“You, sir,” I murmur, “are stupidly handsome.”
And this is why I’m a “hugs before drugs” kinda gal.
High Lucy has no filter.
I should be mortified, but I’m not. Another problem for Future Lucy to untangle.
Dr. Kincaid freezes mid-step. One brow lifts. “That’s probably the meds talking.”
It’s definitely the meds talking, but that doesn’t change what’s objectively true.
“You have the jawline of a Greek god.”
His mouth twitches. “And that confirms it.”
“Best hallucination ever.”
This is fine. Totally fine. Why not ask him to marry you while you’re at it, Lu?
Something flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can name it. Probably for the best… seeing as I’d probably name it out loud.
“Do you have anyone coming to get you?” he asks, dragging a hand down his face with a sigh.
“Stella and Gabby,” I say cheerfully. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Good. I’m not sure it’s safe to release you to the world in this state.”
I wave a hand. “I grew up in this state, thank you very much. I was too much for it then, and I’ll be too much for it now.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head at the floor. I can’t tell if he’s amused or bracing himself for more. Probably both.
“Not the state of Florida,” he mutters, then holds up his hands in surrender. “You know what? Never mind. We have good news and bad news.”
I brace myself.
“The good… There’s no sign of a brain bleed. You do have a concussion, but it’s mild.”
Relief washes through me. Okay. That’s manageable.
“And the bad?”
“Your ankle isn’t fractured.”
“How is that bad?”
“Because you’ve got a grade three sprain. Torn ligaments. Severe swelling. It’s going to take longer than a break to heal, and a lot more effort.”
My stomach drops. “But I’ll be okay in a week or two, right?”
He gives me a look as he drops to his stool and scoots closer. Something in the way he folds his hands tells me I’m not gonna like what’s coming.
“Nurse Talia said you’re a dancer?”
I nod, warily.
“Then that tells me you’re stubborn.” His tone sharpens. “I need you to channel that into healing. Not pushing through pain or ignoring advice. Be stubborn like a donkey, not an ass.”
“Charming,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. “Alright, Doc Gruff… what’s your advice?”
“For the concussion, no screens for the next twenty-four hours. That means no TV. No phone. You’ll survive. People did it all the time in the nineties.”
I gape at the sheer audacity of his arrogance. “I’m perfectly capable of surviving without screens.”
The corners of his mouth almost—almost—lift.
“No driving. No alcohol. Tylenol only for pain. Nothing that could worsen the bleeding risk.”
“And the ankle?”
“Crutches. No weight-bearing for at least three, probably four weeks. I could write you a referral for physical therapy, but since you’re out of state, it’s best you follow up with your primary care physician once you get home.”
I groan.
“If you push it, you’ll risk permanent damage,” he says flatly. “And I will personally make sure you regret it.”
His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment—just a moment—the air thins.
There it is again. That thing I can’t name. The one that makes my heart trip and my spine straighten. Like I’ve been noticed by someone who doesn’t miss much.