22. An Extremely Tiny Adversary #3
I fight the completely inappropriate urge to laugh. “Breathe in through your nose. And out.”
His forehead nearly touches mine. I hold his hand with both of mine now. “Good. Again.” I hate this. I hate standing here while pain tears through him, and the only thing I can do is tell him when to breathe.
He follows my breaths. In. Out.
The pain doesn’t disappear, but after another minute, it loosens enough that he can stand fully again. He looks absolutely wrecked.
I make a decision. “You’re going to the doctor. Now.”
“I’m—”
“Do not say fine,” I say, emphasizing each word. I can’t stand to see him hurt like this. “You have two transportation options: my car or an ambulance.”
Miles actually pauses to consider!
“My car,” I repeat helpfully.
He winces. “Is there a third option?”
From somewhere behind us, Blake says, “Would the ambulance perhaps be safer?” I turn, and he raises both hands. “Professional medical opinion.”
“You are a dentist.”
“Still a medical professional.”
Miles actually laughs. Then winces and grabs his side like he immediately regrets it. “Car,” he says quickly.
“Excellent choice.”
I apologize to Mackenzie for leaving her shower early, take one last look at the backyard—the gifts, the balloons, the kids racing around the foam block fortress—then I hurry to help Miles around to the front yard.
I barely get Miles to my car before another wave of pain hits.
He leans against my car with both hands braced on the roof, breathing like he really is in labor.
I put a hand on his back as I coach him through the breathing.
The moment the pain lessens, I get him in the car and buckled up before I hop into the car myself and race to the hospital.
Three hours later, I have learned several things.
One, hospital waiting-room chairs were not designed for waiting.
Or for people who are in pain. Two, a scan confirms that Miles does, indeed, have a kidney stone on his right side.
Three, it’s an “unpleasantly large” stone, but still within the range that the doctor thinks Miles can pass it without a procedure.
Which is apparently good news, even if Miles doesn’t look entirely convinced that it is.
The doctor tells Miles to stay hydrated and gives him prescriptions for pain and to help the stone pass. Then he hands Miles a plastic funnel-shaped thing with a mesh end and tells him to use it every time he urinates so he can catch the stone and bring it in to be analyzed.
I’ve never seen a grown man look more awkward than Miles accepting the strainer from the man. When the doctor leaves, Miles gives me a look.
I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, I was going to offer emotional support.”
“And make a joke.”
I gasp like I’ve been scandalized. “I was not.”
He just looks at me.
“Fine. I was deciding between naming this mission ‘Highly Classified Specimen Retrieval’ and ‘Operation Tiny Rock.’”
Miles just shakes his head.
On the way to Miles’s house, I stop and pick up Miles’s prescriptions, two giant bottles of water, several lemons (thanks to Google saying lemon water was helpful), and soup.
Another wave of pain hits right when I pull into Miles’s driveway, and I give him my hand to squeeze while I help him breathe through it. This one is shorter, but still awful.
When it passes, he looks exhausted. Not regular Miles tired or just-home-from-a-mission tired. He looks vulnerable in a way I’m not used to seeing.
Miles’s house is dark when I get him inside.
One of his brothers must’ve brought Miles’s car over, because his keys are on the counter.
I drop mine onto the counter next to his, along with everything else.
Then I pull out the paperwork, prescriptions, and pee strainer while Miles braces both hands against the counter.
“Your next pain dose can be at—”
“Reese.”
I look up and meet his eyes.
“You got me home. You can go.”
I just stare at him.
He must see something in my face because his expression changes. “You’ve already been at the hospital with me for hours. It’s getting late—you should go home and sleep. I’ll be fine.”
I cock my head. Is he really saying that I shouldn’t rearrange things because he needs help?
Interesting. Very interesting. I fold the discharge paperwork once and set it neatly on the counter.
Then I set an alarm on my phone for the next time he’ll need medicine before pulling two glasses from his cupboard to get us both water.
Then I get out a lemon, a knife, and a cutting board, cut the lemon, and squeeze some into his water.
Miles watches. “What are you doing?”
“Staying to take care of you.” He opens his mouth to say something, but I just point at him. “Do not make me quote your own relationship philosophy at you while you’re holding a urine strainer.”
His mouth closes. Good. Miles Lancaster is extremely good at taking care of everyone else. He’s had considerably less experience letting others take care of him.
That sounds like a him problem.
I’m staying.