7. Lilah #3
A tiny bit of relief flared that he’d been here, even if he hadn’t stayed. “At least he showed up, right?”
Rye’s lips flattened into a grim line. “Right. He talked to the doctors some before he left.”
“What time did I get here? Paige called you?” My throat was sandpaper rough.
“She called me at eleven.”
The pieces felt like they should all fit, but they didn’t quite. Although I also had a concussion, so my brain wasn’t firing properly.
Paige must’ve been annoyed. First, I spill a drink on her sister’s clothes, then I can’t handle my two drinks, get hurt and ruin her night out. That was what I got for trying to have fun. I closed my eyes and squinted, but even that hurt.
“So I have too much to drink and knock myself out all before midnight. Then Paige has to leave her party and bring me to the hospital and call you?”
“Sounds about right.” He held out a cup. “Have some water?”
“My croaking’s annoying you?”
A dry chuckle. “Like cinderblocks in a dryer.”
I choked down the first couple of sips like my brain had forgotten how to drink. Water flowed down my throat with satisfying cool crispness. Then the true thirst took over and I chugged the rest.
He refilled my cup. “They said as long as you make it through their concussion check, you’ll be discharged this morning.”
“A little good news.” I collapsed back against the squeaky plastic mattress and rested a hand against my throbbing head. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
I rubbed my forehead with my eyes closed. At least I hadn’t gotten too drunk and passed out at a Hawthorne Prep party. A small reprieve from embarrassment. Shame on me for trying to be a normal teenager for once.
“I need to apologize to Paige.” Pressure swelled behind my eyes, even moving them behind my closed lids hurt. “Where’s my phone?”
“No phone yet.”
I opened one eye. “What do you mean ‘no phone’?”
“Not until the doctor speaks to you. I’ve seen concussion protocols go down, and you’ll probably have to be off your phone for a while. No screens. Let me go find a nurse or doctor.”
A few hours without my phone wasn’t the worst thing. I could probably use a little break.
A guy on Rye’s team a couple years ago got hit so hard he was on brain rest for a whole week.
And Rye wanted to know why I didn’t come to his games.
Once I finished the doctor’s tests and they cleared me to get out of here, I could try to pretend this embarrassing night of attempted normal fun never happened.
Turned out there were worse things than a week of brain rest. Try two weeks.
I was limited to twenty minutes of print reading at a time for as long as it took for the headaches to stop. By the time the doctor walked me through the concussion testing, my headache had turned from a throb at the sides of my head into someone trying to wring out my brain inside my skull.
Eyes closed, I lay in the bed fighting back tears.
“How the hell do I study, Rye? I just got my invitation to apply to the Windsor Award. College applications. My exams and projects.” My vision blurred and my lungs burned as my quick breaths escaped my lips.
The pressure building behind my eyes and at the back of my nose only made my head pound closer to splitting.
He held my hands and rubbed the back of the one without the bandage.
“I’ll help you.”
“How?” I winced at the sharp stab at my panicked shout. “I’m supposed to be tutoring you. You’ve got to get ready for your season.” All my unsubmitted college applications taunted me. I kept wanting to tweak them, and now I’d be lucky if I could submit the ten on time.
“Worry about all that later. First, get changed and I’ll take you home. Your dad already signed all the paperwork.” He held out a tote. “He brought this when he came. Eliza helped him pack it.”
A flash of surprise battled back some of the pain daggering inside my head. They’d cared enough to put this together. Taking the bag, I gingerly picked my way across the floor, with Rye hovering nearby, but I was determined to do it all myself.
Whatever recovery time they had for me, I needed to cut that to nothing. My life might be in chaotic shambles right now, but it was still mine to figure out and not flush down the toilet on the last lap.
After almost fifteen minutes, sitting on the closed toilet twice to rest, I undressed from my borrowed clothes.
A little blood stained the shoulder of the sage-green top along with the red stain from the drink I’d downed.
I ran my fingers over the stain. It wasn’t a lot of blood—you’d never look at that and think I’d ended up with a Grade III concussion. Talk about a lightweight.
Taking my time, I put on the T-shirt, sweatpants and hoodie. I rested my forehead against the back of the door.
How the hell was I going to keep my rank with two weeks of brain rest? How was it possible my senior year was digging to deeper levels of terrible?
Senior year had been my nightmare, but this… My ticket had been purchased without me even knowing it, and now I’d arrived. Destination: Hell.