3. Chapter 3
Chapter three
T he pounding in Carson’s skull never stopped, making the short fifteen-minute drive to the walk-in clinic feel like two hours. Jax parked the truck and came around to her side. She already had the seatbelt undone when he opened the door.
“Think you can walk?” he asked, offering his hand to help her down onto the sidestep.
“Yes. I’m not as dizzy anymore.”
“Just keep the towel on it.”
Once inside, he guided her to one of the empty chairs and went to speak to the receptionist. Hushed murmurs drifted about the waiting room from the other patrons. An older couple sat reading magazines in the corner. A mother and father distracted their coughing child with a colorful, wooden toy. A group of teenage boys snickered, as their mother slumped in her chair.
“Are you able to fill this out?” Jax was back, holding a clipboard.
Sitting up, Carson took the paperwork from him. As soon as he lowered himself into the seat on her left, his pocket buzzed. He snatched his phone to read the incoming texts.
“It’s Raegan. Want her to come by?”
Carson finished scribbling her insurance information, which gave her a moment to think. If Raegan showed up, Carson would have to talk . . . a lot. More talking than she could handle at the moment. She was too exhausted to entertain anyone or replay the whole door-to-head incident. But she had no other way home; they had driven together to the tournament.
“Or I can just drive you home,” Jax offered. “If that doesn’t weird you out.”
She squinted at him. “You’re not some sort of perv, are you?”
He laughed. “I’m a lot of things, but that I am not.”
“Then sure, I just want to go home—wait.” Leaning forward, she patted her back pocket for her forgotten phone and was thankful to find it still there. Her sigh of relief was short-lived when she saw the stack of alerts—five missed calls and fifteen messages—waiting on the screen.
“I can text Raegan and let her know,” she told Jax. “I live in Chino Valley, though.”
Propping one arm on her chair, Jax lay back, calm for being in a place full of pain and sickness. Carson surmised it was because he was used to it. Besides, isn’t that what firefighters are? Comfortable in chaos.
“No problem,” Jax said. “It’s the least I can do after knocking you out.”
They waited in silence. Jax was fixated on a hockey game on the flatscreen mounted in the corner while Carson slouched in her seat, dreaming about her plush bed.
“Carson West?”
Both Jax and Carson turned to see the triage nurse holding a door open, her eyes scanning the waiting room. Jax stood and reached a hand toward Carson. When she got up, the room didn’t spin like a carnival ride, which was an improvement.
“Need me to go back with you?” he asked.
Too exhausted to care, Carson nodded, and they followed the nurse—Cindy, according to her name tag—through the door, down a hall, and into a tiny patient room. Bland blues and creams covered the walls, and a wooden “Keep Moving Forward” sign too tiny for its canvas hung on one wall. Beneath it was an arrow pointing to nowhere. Carson believed it was a sad attempt to liven up the drab space.
“Have a seat on the bed so I can get some vitals,” the nurse instructed. Short and sweet, she reminded Carson of Raegan’s mother.
The tissue paper crunched beneath Carson as she took her place. Jax sat casually in one of the chairs in the back corner. An ankle rested on one knee while his arms, hands, and fingers loosely lay on the arms of the chair.
Cindy unhooked the blood pressure cuff from the rolling tray. “I’ll need your right arm, honey.”
Carson’s stomach lodged in her throat. She sure as hell wasn’t going to roll her sleeve up right now. Not for the nurse, not for the doctor, and not in front of Jax.
“Can I keep my sleeve down? I’m . . . cold,” she lied.
Cindy gave her a sympathetic smile. Carson’s own mother would have rolled her eyes.
“Sure, dear,” Cindy said. “It makes no difference.”
The dread released from the pit of Carson’s stomach. With her left hand still holding the rag to her head, she offered her right arm. Cindy wrapped the cuff around it and pressed a button to automate the machine. The tight pressure on her bicep was oddly comforting.
“So, you hit your head?” Cindy asked, holding a thermometer to the side of her forehead the towel wasn’t covering.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going and ran into a door,” Carson said.
Jax broke his silence. “That is not how it happened.”
The nurse’s large, round eyes darted between her and Jax. “Oh? ”
“I swung the door open, and she was on the other side,” he said.
“Yeah, but if I was watching where I was going this wouldn’t have happened. It’s my fault we’re here,” Carson confessed.
Cindy’s face softened. “It sounds like it was nobody’s fault. Freak accidents are very common.” She reached over to the counter and grabbed a pair of gloves. “Now, let’s see what all the fuss is about.” When Carson peeled back the rag, Cindy’s lips pursed. “I think it’s safe to say you’ll be needing stitches.”
Taking the cloth from Carson’s hand, Cindy tossed it in the waste disposal, but not before Carson caught sight of the large maroon spot staining the pristine color. How many bloodied rags had Carson thrown away herself? Too many to count. While the nurse taped a sterile gauze over the open wound, Carson shook her arms out, attempting to release the tingles from holding them up for so long.
Cindy went on to ask the typical intake questions. Carson had always loved the clacking sound that keyboards made. Cindy’s acrylic nails made the experience even more satisfying as she took down Carson’s answers. No concussion, no double vision, minimal nausea at the beginning that was gone now, no confusion.
As Cindy stepped out to fetch the doctor, Carson reached up to rub the knots that had formed in her shoulders, eyeing the jars of clinical disposables that sat on the counter next to the sink. How ironic that she was back in a medical facility on the anniversary of the car accident. Just my luck .
“Feeling any better?” Jax asked, sneaking a peek into one of the drawers.
Dropping her hands into her lap, Carson rubbed them down her thighs to her knees before answering his question. “Just ready to get home.”
“I don’t blame you.” Jax closed the drawer then tilted his head. “You know, you look kind of familiar. I swear I’ve met you before.”
Carson shrugged, having thought the same thing. “Maybe. It’s a small town.”
“Hmm.” Jax continued to study her face, causing Carson to nervously look down at her shoes.
Then the door squeaked open, and Carson was transported back five years.
A young man wearing a white coat—far too young to have gone through medical school and residency—entered the room. Heavy doses of sedatives and narcotics coursed through Carson’s veins, making her feel like stone. The doctor’s face had been emotionless when he stood at the end of her bed reciting the words: dead, dead, dead. That was the only part she had understood. She clung to that word. They were dead. Dead because of her . . .
“Carson?”
It was Jax who brought her back to the present. Carson wasn’t in the hospital, hadn’t just woken from a coma. The doctor hadn’t just told her that her family was dead.
Blinking, she squeezed the cushion beneath her, trying to ground herself. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry. Yes?”
The urgent care physician in front of Carson looked nothing like the doctor from her memory. In fact, he appeared very experienced with his white hair and well-worn lab coat.
“The nurse tells me you hit your head but doesn’t think you have a concussion.” The physician pulled a flashlight from his front pocket as he stepped up to Carson, just as Cindy returned with a cart full of supplies. “Just look at the button on my shirt.” Carson obliged as he shone the light in her eyes.
“Looks good. Not feeling sluggish or sick? ”
She shook her head.
“Very good. Go ahead and lay back. We’ll get you stitched up and out of here in no time.”
As Carson reclined, Cindy pulled out a slate so her feet wouldn’t hang helplessly off the bed.
“Oh, you are cold. You’re shaking,” Cindy said.
Yes, cold. That’s why Carson’s bones and joints were twitching, and her jaw hurt. Why her heart was pumping so hard she was sure she would wake up with bruised ribs. Cold. That’s all it was.
A weight covered her legs, and she glanced down to see Cindy had placed a knitted blanket over her. She wanted to cry at the gesture.
The doctor and the nurse began the procedure, their movements routine as if they had done it hundreds of times. It happened so quickly: gauze was removed, plastic ripped open, sterile drapes placed on and near her. A spotlight clicked on, blinding her.
She dropped her gaze and found Jax’s face. Worry lines creased his forehead, and his mouth was slightly open. Perhaps it was because Carson’s breaths were short and quick, or because her eyes appeared wild and panicked. Jax was leaning toward her as if he wanted to scoop her up and rescue her from this place. If he did, she wouldn’t resist.
Carson fought to keep from squirming under the physician’s touch. Her fingers dug into the plastic on the edge of the medical bed hard enough to leave marks. She was good at leaving marks.
Then Jax did something she would have never imagined a stranger to do. He brushed the tops of her fingers. From his touch, the tension released, and Carson grasped his offered hand. Closing her eyes, she squeezed tighter as the thread tugged on her skin. Instead of listening to the physician, she focused on the warm hand that held hers .
Touch. Skin. Solace. How long had it been since she had held a hand? She couldn’t remember.
Carson released a raspy exhale. The physician was going to chastise her if she didn’t get her breathing under control. She tried to breathe in through her nose and release it through her mouth. The snip of the scissors announced that the physician had finished sewing her skin back together. It was almost over. She could suffer through a little more, especially now that someone was holding her hand.
“All done,” the old physician announced, standing up to dispose of his gloves.
Cindy quickly gathered the soiled gauze and drapes and helped her sit back up. Carson noticed she was still squeezing Jax’s hand. When she released him, the tips of his fingers were slightly purple. How hard had her grip been?
“You did great,” the physician said before bidding farewell and slipping out the door.
How observant , Carson thought.
Cindy shoved the remaining medical waste into a hole carved out of the counter. “I’ll get you some ice, then you’ll be free to go.”
As Cindy stepped out Carson turned to Jax, catching him mid-yawn while he ran a hand through his shaggy hair and readjusted his baseball cap. A twinge of guilt hit her stomach as she wondered how late it was.
“Thank you again for bringing me and for . . . holding my hand.” Carson’s face pinched, a little embarrassed that she needed her hand held like a child in the first place. She wondered what he thought of it, of her.
Jax grinned. “I didn’t mind.”
Carson pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything further because whether he minded or not, she did .
Then his face shifted, looking upset. “I still can’t believe I smacked you with a door,” he said. “I feel really bad. You’re going to have to let me make it up to you somehow.”
“How ‘bout you promise to never hit me on the head again?” Carson offered, hoping to show him it wasn’t that big of a deal.
He barked out a laugh, making Carson happy that he was no longer frowning. That was when Cindy came back with an icepack and post-procedure instructions, giving Carson the okay to go home.
It was late into the night, which left old Highway 89, connecting Prescott and Chino Valley, dark and barren. Carson directed Jax with simple instructions to her home as she kept the icepack in place. By now the adrenaline of the night had worn off, and she was ready to crawl into bed.
When they turned off the dirt road and drove through her front gate, Carson instructed Jax to take the gravel driveway that looped around her home where she could access a side entrance. After parking the truck, their footsteps crunched against the rocks as they walked, using the headlights and porchlight to illuminate their path.
“Do you have everything?” Jax asked when they reached the door.
Carson patted all her pockets with one hand. “Phone, key”—she lowered the icepack from her head and wiggled it—“ice. It’s all here.”
Jax glanced at her forehead and frowned. Then he reached up as if to touch the bandage but stopped half-way and let his arm fall back to his side.
“I’m fine, really,” she said, pretending like she didn’t want him to touch her .
Jax opened his mouth as if to argue but must have decided against it because, instead, he gave her a soft smile.
“Get some rest. You need it,” he said before turning.
She watched as Jax retreated to his truck and drove away. And while she was excited for the day to be over, Carson knew she would be lying in bed awake reliving her evening with the blue-eyed firefighter.