Chapter 6 Mile Six #2
I stiffen at the undercurrent of worry in Garrett’s typically steady tone.
“Is he conscious?”
“What’s happening?” I say, anxiety pulsing along my nerves.
“We’ll be right there.” His gaze pins me in place. “Anker was hurt. He’s in the ED.”
The scent of disinfectant fills my nostrils as Garrett guides me through the maze of gurneys, carts, and staff shuffling between different emergency department bays. Despite the early morning hour, the emergency department is a flurry of beeping sounds, phones ringing, and staff conversations.
From what the charge nurse who called Garrett had said, Anker had been brought in via ambulance just after six a.m. Outside of the fact that he’d fallen on a pre-dawn jog this morning and is busted up enough to warrant an ambulance, we’re not sure what happened.
“Are you okay?” I rasp, wrapping my arms around Anker, who sits propped up in a gurney.
“Ouch,” he groans. “Easy, She-Hulk, I have broken ribs.”
“Broken ribs!” I gasp, stepping back and tilting my head to take him in with my still intact-ish peripheral vision.
Thanks to the hospital’s fluorescent lighting and my closeness, I’m able to get a visual picture of his state.
He’s in a pair of black mesh shorts and a tattered gray T-shirt.
Knowing my always put-together brother, that shirt’s rip is related to his fall.
His thick hair—the same as mine—is disheveled.
A beige colored bandage along his hairline stands out against the contrast of his dark brown hair.
Another bandage, this one dark blue, is wrapped around the knee of his right leg that rests on top of a large pillow on the gurney.
“This looks bad. How bad are you hurt? Are you in a lot of pain?” I motion towards him.
“It looks far worse than it is,” someone says, pulling my attention to the other side of the gurney where a tall, lean man in a white lab coat stands. His warm smile is bright against his neat dark beard.
“Sorry…” My cheeks heat. “I didn’t see you there.”
“I’m Dr. Raymond Deridder. Ray,” he says, his smooth baritone almost winks as if it’s a private joke between us. “You must be Jensen, Anker’s sister. He’s mentioned you a few times.”
“Nice to meet you.” I brush a loose tendril of my hair behind my ear.
“Glad to meet you, too.”
I clear my throat. “So, he’s not hurt too bad.”
“Sure… not too bad. Just bad enough to fuck up this weekend.” Anker huffs a harsh breath.
“Sorry, Larsen. You’ll be off your feet for a bit,” Ray says.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“We don’t have time to figure that out,” Garrett says dryly.
“Ha. Ha,” Anker harrumphs.
The little exchange causes the tension inside me to unspool. If Anker was truly hurt, Garrett wouldn’t tease him. At least the kind of hurt where there is something to worry about.
“Fractured ankle. Two broken ribs. Lacerations at the hairline and right knee. Possible concussion,” Garrett says, his tone steady.
“That sounds bad.” I twist to face Garrett, who stands behind me holding a tablet.
“He’ll survive.”
“Your bedside manner is top-notch, Marlowe,” Anker snarks.
He ignores my brother. “Like Deridder says, it sounds worse than it is. He’ll be okay.” A hint of a tender smile plays in the gentle timbre of his voice.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
Technically, he didn’t do anything, but his reassurance calms the anxiety that has rippled inside me since the charge nurse called him.
The thought of something happening to Anker terrifies me.
He’s not just a brother. Until Catherine, he was my only real friend—even if I don’t always tell him everything.
A dull ache radiates in my chest at the idea of anything happening to him.
“Garrett, are you using your hospital credentials to read my chart?” Anker says, aghast. “It’s bad enough being brought into the hospital where I work and having my colleagues patch me up. I’d prefer my best friend not poke around in my medical records.”
“Don’t worry, I ignored the note about that foot fungus you needed antibiotics for a few months back.”
I snort.
“Hilarious,” Anker grumbles.
“Just doing my due diligence as inpatient chief to see if you’ll require admission.” Garrett looks up from the tablet.
The audible smirk in his snark causes my mouth to curl upward.
“Total abuse of power,” Anker grumbles.
“I don’t think his ankle needs surgery.” He clicks his tongue twice.
“Seriously. I’m right here!”
Ignoring my brother, he continues, “Still, let’s get an ortho consult just to be on the safe side.”
“Agree.” Ray taps something into his tablet.
“Don’t agree with him. He’s not my doctor. He doesn’t even work in the ED,” Anker mumbles with the fervor of an unruly child.
“File a complaint with HR.”
He tosses his hands into the air. “HR, the shitty cherry on top of the turd sundae that is today.”
“On that note, let me go see if the charge nurse can work his magic to get ortho down here sooner.” Ray moves towards the room’s entrance.
I pivot. “Thank you, Ray.”
He stops, turning to look over his shoulder. “Of course. It was lovely meeting you.”
“You, too.” I wave as he slips out of the room.
“Great. My injury facilitates a meet-cute between my sister and the new head of emergency medicine.”
“Hardly. He’s just being polite.”
“Your sister isn’t available,” Garrett says briskly.
“Unavailable? Please, tell me you’re not with Mr. Semicolon,” Anker groans. “It’s been a shitty enough morning.”
“No. I’m not with Miles.” Eyes narrow, I aim the full force of my glower on Garrett.
Clearly Mr. We Get into Each Other’s Shit is sharing mine with my brother. I’ll tell Anker about my romantic sabbatical—at least the CliffsNotes version—but while he’s sitting busted up in the ED doesn’t seem the right place to get into it.
“I’m taking a break from dating, but we have more important things to discuss at the moment.” I look over my shoulder towards Garrett. “Hey, Dr. No Boundaries, how long will he be down for?”
“Again, I’m right here,” Anker mutters.
“I have boundaries.”
Garrett’s tone paints the image of an indignant pout puckering his face. If I weren’t a little annoyed with him for mentioning my break from dating, speeding up a conversation with my brother about it, I’d think it was adorable.
“The ribs will take a few weeks, but the ankle… Six months or so.”
“Which means bye-bye New York.” Anker sighs.
Mouth dragged down, I turn back to my brother. “I’m sorry about the race, Anker.”
The journey to the New York City marathon has been almost two years in the making.
Besides his general marathon training, he’s had to run key races in the last year to qualify for a spot in the race.
Unlike the Seal Beach marathon each October, you can’t just fill out a registration form and pay a fee to run it.
“Me too.” His entire essence resembles a crushed soda can.
“How did this happen anyway?”
“Fucking corgis.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
Anker is more surly than normal, which is to be expected. He’s likely both in physical pain and frustrated that this derails his intention to run the marathon on Sunday.
“What does that mean?” I scrunch my nose.
“It means Mr. Sloan’s horde of stumpy-legged wannabe watchdogs got out of his backyard this morning and directly into the path of a guy on a bike who swerved to miss them and slammed into me as I rounded the corner on my morning jog.”
“Are they okay?” I place my hand on my chest.
“The furry terrorists are fine. When I came to, after hitting my head in the fall, Mr. Sloan was there with his—now leashed—demon dogs and the bicyclist.”
“I don’t think the corgis were gunning for you,” Garrett says.
“Their motivation aside, my ankle is broken, and the last sixteen months of work are flushed down the drain.”
“I’m sorry, Anker.” I squeeze his forearm. “I know how hard you’ve worked.”
“Yeah… All for nothing.” He shakes his head.
A sharp twinge radiates in my chest at this. It’s not like my brother to be so forlorn. He’s the endless sunny days of people. No matter the issue or misstep, he’s the reassuring one. Each time I tripped or saw my vision slip further away, he’d reassure me.
“Six months.” I look between Anker and Garrett. “The ankle will take six months to heal, and then he can train again. Right?”
“Six months or so.” He looks at the tablet. “Even if ortho recommends surgery, which I doubt, it shouldn’t be more than that with the shape your brother is in.”
“You’re not my doctor here.” Anker wags his finger. “You’re just my best friend and emergency contact.”
“Wait, why is Garrett your emergency contact?”
“Because, unlike you, he answers his phone.”
“He’s not wrong there,” Garrett says wryly.
“Whatever.” I toss my hands up. “Anyways, if you’ll be healed in six months, then you can still run New York. Just next November. Surely, they’ll let you defer your entry a year due to this, so you don’t have to qualify again.”
“I’ll be thirty-one by then.”
“And?” I gesture at him.
“The point of running New York is to do it the year I turn thirty.”
The Larsen lore. It’s amazing to me that my scientist brother puts so much stock in this.
Ever since we were kids, he’d light up each time my father or uncles talked about the year they turned thirty.
Even I’ll admit it did seem like a magical time.
All three of them not only met their future people, but it seemed to be the time everything else clicked for them.
Our father realized his passion for baking—part of which facilitated his meet-cute with our mom after he’d asked about the recipe for the scones at the coffee shop where she worked.
It's so easy to fall into the magic of their stories, but it’s just the typical time in people’s lives where they settle into careers and their futures. It’s all just the natural flow of some people’s lives masquerading as family legend. And he thinks I read too many romance novels.