Chapter 19
19
C hloe laughs as her dad dips her during their father-daughter dance.
I smile at the sentimental sight. Grab one of the disposable cameras off the table and snap a photo of the sweet moment.
Next to me, Bridget sniffs. I pat her thigh.
Today has been an emotional day for all of us.
“Come on, guys.” Tripp appears, perching on the edge of the empty seat to my left. “We’re almost up. Final rehearsal out on the terrace.”
It was Fran’s idea to perform a group dance at Chloe’s wedding. My song suggestion. Hugo’s job to choreograph it. Tripp was the organizer. Cal and Jasper were in charge of designing and printing the T-shirts.
The final result is … a spectacle.
“We’ve practiced twenty times,” Bridget says, sipping more champagne.
“And you were late on the last clap on Thursday. Plus, we didn’t get to practice last night because someone”—a pointed glance at me—“wasn’t around.”
I roll my eyes. “ My clap was on cue.”
“Fine.” Tripp leans back in the chair. “If you want Chloe to remember our tribute to twenty years of friendship being an amateur performance?—”
“For fuck’s sake, Tripp.” Bridget stands. “This is supposed to be fun .” She stalks toward one of the doors that lead out to the terrace.
Tripp bounds up eagerly, leaving me sitting alone at our table.
I sneak one last glance at Chloe dancing with her dad, then grab my glass and follow them toward the exit.
The blister forming on my left pinkie toe throbs, and I deliberate if it’s worth changing into less cute but more comfortable shoes for the dance. I’ll see how much it bothers me during our final rehearsal, I guess.
I step onto the stone pavers, rushing to catch up with Tripp and Bridget. Jasper, Cal, Hugo, and Fran are already huddled up ahead, Jasper holding a bundle of white that must be the themed shirts.
I don’t see it coming. One second, I’m vertical, running through the steps Hugo came up with in my head. And then I’m falling, my stomach lurching as I pitch forward. I toss the glass on instinct, lifting my arm to cushion the hit. One of my heels catches between the pavers. I’m kept airborne for an extra second, teetering, before gravity prevails. My hand, shoulder, and head collide with unforgiving stone.
“Lili!”
“Oh my God.”
“Can you hear me, Lili?”
“ Fuck. She’s bleeding.”
“Are you okay?”
A cacophony of concerned voices swirls around me as I absorb the fact that I’m now lying on the ground.
I inhale shakily. Exhale an “Ow.”
It hurts —everywhere. And I can feel a stickiness on my hand. My stomach roils sickeningly, even though I’m lying still.
I blink a few times, then sit up, making sure to rest all my weight on my uninjured hand. My left is what hit the ground, my right’s reflexes slower, thanks to the shattered glass lying a foot away. At least I didn’t fall on the sharp splinters. I’m nauseous at the thought.
My friends are all clustered around, Bridget and Fran crouched on the ground beside me.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I think.”
“You’re bleeding,” Fran whispers.
“I know.” I don’t look, but I can feel it.
Not just my wet palm, but warmth trickling down my shoulder.
“Here. Apply some pressure.” Jasper holds out one of the shirts.
I don’t take it. “I’m not getting blood all over that. What about the dance?”
“You’re bleeding, and you hit your head,” Cal tells me. “You’re not doing the dance, Lili.”
I want to protest, but I know he’s right. Based on everyone’s worried expressions, I look as bad as I feel. The only upside to my injuries is that my blister isn’t bothering me anymore.
“You guys can still do it,” I say, taking the shirt from Jasper reluctantly.
Hugo scoffs. “Without you? No way. We’ll perform it for Chloe some other time.”
“You should go to a hospital, Lili,” Fran says. “Get your head checked. And”—her eyes dart down to my arm—“you might need stitches.”
Disappointment swamps me. It’s bad enough I ruined the dance performance. I don’t want to miss the rest of the reception. And I definitely don’t feel like spending the rest of the night sitting in a hospital.
“She’s right,” Bridget agrees. “You should get looked at, just in case.”
Murmured agreement from the guys.
I close my eyes. Blow out a long breath.
“Can one of you go get Charlie?”
Silence.
I crack one eye open, not a fan of the half-pitying, half-disbelieving look Fran and Jasper exchange.
Tripp sighs. “He doesn’t really seem like the hold your hand type, Lili.”
He’s undoubtedly thinking that I fell for the Charles Marlborough charm after one night, but I don’t feel like explaining the real reason to Tripp.
“I don’t want him to hold my hand,” I say through gritted teeth. My head is starting to throb worse now. And I’m trying not to cause a scene, but my scraped arm fucking stings . I close my eyes again since that helped a little. “I want him to take a look at me.”
“You need a doctor, not a duke,” Jasper says. “I’m no gynecologist, but I guess I can give it a go.”
Someone muffles a laugh. Fran, I think. Traitor . There’s also a grunt, like an elbow was thrown.
“My vagina is fine, asshole. Can someone just get Charlie ?”
There’s a dramatic sigh as one of my friends makes his or her disapproval known, but when I open my eyes again, Hugo is missing.
I exhale, too, then gingerly roll my shoulder. My fingers are starting to ache from gripping the shirt so tightly, and I feel foolish, sitting in the middle of the terrace.
But between the nausea and the throbbing in my temples, standing or moving sounds like a terrible idea. At least the curtains covering the doors mean I’m not on display for the whole reception to gawk at.
Bridget brings me a glass of cold water that I take tiny sips from while staring into space. Fran stays by my side while Jasper and Tripp stand like sentries. Cal kneels, picking up the larger pieces of the broken glass then tossing them into the garbage can next to one of the tall oaks.
“You guys don’t have to stay out here.”
Jasper snorts.
Cal gives me an incredulous look. “Of course we’re staying with you.”
Hugo returns, alone, a few minutes later.
I take another gulp of water before asking, “Did you find him?”
“Uh-huh. He said he needed to take care of something first.”
I told you so is stamped all over his face, echoing in the silence surrounding me, and then it’s interrupted by Tripp’s muttered, “Dick.”
I try to ignore the pang of disappointment that appears. I didn’t ask for Charlie because I needed him to comfort me or because we went on a date that ended with lots of sex. I asked for him because he’s the one person here who I know has some medical training and I’d like to avoid spending the remainder of my best friend’s wedding in a British emergency room.
“Okay,” I say, defeat saturating the two syllables. “I guess I should go to the hospital.”
No matter how inconvenient a trip to the ER is, I’m not willing to risk a brain bleed or whatever else can result from a head slamming into concrete.
Cal nods in immediate agreement. “I’ll drive you.”
“In a strange city, on the wrong side of the road, after drinking?” Bridget shakes her head. “Call a driver.”
“I’ll ask Chloe what?—”
“No,” I rasp, interrupting Fran. The pounding in my head feels like it’s worked its way into my throat. “Don’t tell Chloe. Make up some excuse if she asks about me. I don’t want to ruin her wedding. Someone at the front desk will know a car service. You guys stay here, and Cal will text you once we know more. Right?” I glance at Cal.
He nods again. “Right.”
“All right.” I blow out a breath. “Can you guys help me up?”
One of the terrace doors shuts, followed by the pound of confident footfalls.
“Don’t bloody move, Lili.”
I swallow—hard—as soon as I hear his voice. Slump with something that feels similar to relief and then try to sit up straighter. For the first time since I realized I was falling, I feel better.
Charlie crouches down next to me, then sets a first aid kit down on the pavers. “What happened?” he asks briskly.
Fran scrambles out of his way, leaving the two of us on the ground alone.
I have to clear my throat twice. “I fell. Tripped. Fucking heels.”
His warm fingers cover mine, coaxing my tight grip on the shirt loose so he can inspect the scrapes on my palm. He frowns at what I hope are just shallow cuts.
“Can someone flash a light?”
I look away from the brightness when it appears, not wanting to see the blood.
I stare at Charlie’s focused expression instead. Trace the line of his jaw and the angle of his nose and the slope of his forehead with my eyes. Features so perfect and proportional that they look like they belong to one of the Greek mythology sculptures in my favorite exhibit at the Met.
“Higher,” he instructs.
The light moves, but my eyes don’t. It feels like the pain is fading a little, but maybe I’m just getting used to it. Or more distracted than I was.
“She hit her head too,” Jasper says, the closeness of his voice making me think he’s the one holding the light. I don’t look away from Charlie to confirm.
“Okay. You can turn off the light.”
A soft rustle as Charlie rummages through the bag he brought. He glances up, catching me staring. “This is antiseptic,” he tells me. “It’s going to sting.”
“It already stings.”
But I understand what Charlie means as soon as he presses the damp gauze against my palm. A hiss escapes my mouth before I can stop it, the burn so intense it feels like my skin should be smoking. I bite down on my tongue until I taste copper as the gauze moves to my shoulder, the singe of invisible flames following right behind.
“Quietest you’ve ever been with my hands on you,” he says, low enough so that only I can hear—I hope.
“Don’t be a wanker.”
Charlie chuckles under his breath. “Who taught you that one?”
“I searched some British insults earlier.”
Another low laugh, and then he tosses the gauze to the ground. I make the mistake of following the motion, grimacing at the rusty stains.
“Where’d you hit your head?”
“By my left temple. I was holding a glass in my right hand, so I was trying to fall that way.”
His fingers slip into my hair, running lightly across my scalp. I wince when he finds tender skin.
“There?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Did you lose consciousness?”
“No.”
“How much have you had to drink?”
My cheeks warm. It feels like a personal question, coming from him. Like he knows I ordered my second drink right after seeing him talking to several beautiful women, including the blonde he sat next to during the ceremony.
“Two,” I answer.
“Was the flashlight bothering your eyes?”
I shake my head, then immediately regret it. “I just don’t like looking at blood.”
“You have a headache.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, but I answer anyway. “My head hurts, yeah. The concrete wasn’t soft.”
Charlie doesn’t crack a smile. “Who got married today?”
“Chloe and Theo.”
“Where did you start college?”
“Yale.”
“What did you have for dinner last night?”
“Fish.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“You don’t know the answer to that.”
He relaxes a little, making me realize how tense he was before. “I don’t think you have a concussion.”
I relax too, relieved. “Great. I really didn’t want to go to?—”
“We’re going to the hospital, Lili.”
“What? You just said I’m fine. Slap a couple of Band-Aids on my arm, and I’ll change into another dress.”
This one is ruined, ripped and stained, which makes me more emotional than it should. Shock maybe. Not only do I love this dress, but it’s one my mom designed. One that matches two of my best friends’ and will be in all the photos of Chloe’s wedding.
“I said I don’t think you have a concussion, not that you’re fine, so we’re going to find out for sure.”
I groan. “Charlie …”
“Are you walking, or do you need me to carry you?”
“You’re overreacting.” I stand slowly, ignoring the hand he offers, hiding the flinch of pain in the hopes that he’ll change his mind.
“We’ll see. Let’s go.”
He’s planning to come with me, I realize. Which is not the direction I saw this evening taking. I thought he’d walk out here and tell me some Tylenol and Neosporin should do the trick.
I can’t decide if Charlie accompanying me is a good or bad idea. His presence is reassuring, and he’ll know how to navigate a foreign health-care system I have no experience with.
But I’m … embarrassed that he’s seeing me like this. I want him to see me as confident and sexy and capable. Not as a clumsy, foolish, tipsy mess.
“You don’t need to come with me,” I tell him.
Charlie doesn’t bother replying. He’s zipping up the first aid bag and tossing the gauze he used in the trash can.
“Here.” Bridget hands me a pair of plastic flip-flops. “Chloe got those for anyone wanting to change out of heels.”
I didn’t even notice her duck inside.
“Thank you,” I say, stepping out of my heels and slipping the flip-flops on instead. They’re a little big, but not too bad. And a lot more comfortable than Louboutins.
Cal appears beside me. “Do you want him to take you?” he asks quietly.
I bite my lip. Nod.
He exhales. “Do you want me to come too?”
It’s a genuine offer, and it means a lot. It’s a caring gesture from my friend Cal, not my ex-boyfriend–slash–safe harbor.
“I’m good, Cal. Thanks.” I squeeze his arm with my uninjured hand, trying to silently convey how much I appreciate the offer.
Tripp is sidling up to Charlie. “Lili doesn’t need a chauffeur.”
Charlie’s jaw flexes as he hands the first aid kit to Fran. She offered to bring it back inside. “You want her to drive herself to the hospital?”
“No, of course not. But one of her friends will go with her.”
Animosity is suddenly humming in the evening air. Mostly emanating from Tripp, who’s normally one of the most easygoing people I know.
Charlie raises one eyebrow. “Know a lot about intracranial hematomas, do you?”
“Throw around as many medical terms as you want, man. But if you think I’m going to let Lili go off with you while she’s injured and?—”
“Stop making me sound like an invalid, Tripp,” I say. “I’ll go with Charlie. Then, none of you have to miss the rest of the reception.”
Cal grunts. “Stop worrying about the damn reception, Lili.”
“How much have you had to drink?” Tripp asks Charlie rudely.
“Tripp!” I chastise. “He’s not?—”
“Nothing.” Charlie holds Tripp’s gaze for a few seconds, then glances at me. “Sooner we leave, the sooner you can reunite with your friends .”
I nod reluctantly, still not thrilled about having to go to the hospital.
“Are you sure you don’t want us to come?” Bridget whispers to me.
“I’m good,” I tell her.
“Call if you need anything.” Fran squeezes my hand.
I walk toward Charlie, leveling Tripp with a half-pleading, half-annoyed look as I pass him.
“He’s just worried about me,” I tell Charlie as we start along the path that leads away from the carriage house and toward the hotel.
“I know. That’s why I didn’t punch him.”
I snort, then shiver. It’s chillier out than I would have thought possible, considering temperatures were in the eighties earlier.
The warm weight of Charlie’s jacket settles over my shoulders a few seconds later. He’s wearing the same suit from last night, the one that spent the night on my floor, but there’s not a single wrinkle in the stiff fabric.
I startle, then begin to protest. “I’m going to get blood on it?—”
“Don’t care.”
Arguing sounds exhausting. He’s as stubborn as I am.
“Thanks.”
A low hum is his only response.
There’s no one standing at the valet stand when we reach it. It’s only nine o’clock, earlier than they assumed any guests would be departing, I guess.
“Someone is probably at the front desk …” My voice trails off as Charlie leans down and opens the stand.
After surveying the interior for a few seconds, he stands with a pair of keys clutched in one hand.
“Stay here,” he instructs, then jogs toward the parking area.
A slight breeze picks up, blowing hair away from my face. I tug Charlie’s jacket tighter around my shoulders, inhaling his delicious scent deeply.
Something sharp pokes at my chest. After glancing at the darkness to ensure Charlie isn’t in sight, I loosen my grip on the fabric and stick a hand into the inside pocket, my fingers brushing against something hard.
I stare at the rectangle. A matchbox. I squint at it until the scrambled letters make sense. The Beach House , it reads. The name of the restaurant where Charlie and I ate last night. I remember seeing a matchbox beside the lit candle on the table. I almost knocked it off with my wineglass at one point. But I don’t know why it’s in the pocket of Charlie’s suit.
The crunch of gravel makes me jump. I quickly slip the matchbox back where I found it, focusing on the approaching car instead. Headlights sweep across the bushes beside me before the convertible rolls to a stop.
I rush toward the passenger side, the flipped interior layout automatic for the first time, not wanting Charlie to climb out and assist me. I have some dignity left, and I’d like to preserve it.
It looks like Charlie’s forehead furrows, but he says nothing as I slam the door shut and click on my seat belt.
And all I say before he hits the gas is, “You would’ve been a really good doctor.”