Page 17 of Mountain Bean Dream
“Squeeze my hand.” He put his fist into my left palm, and I tried my best to grip it without grimacing. He straightened it out, palpitated, and bent it again. “It’s not broken, so that’s great. But it does have a minor sprain. I’m more concerned about your headache. While you don’t have a severe concussion, I would like you to monitor your symptoms for the next forty-eight hours and come right back if things get any worse, okay?”
Derek pushed back on his stool, typing wildly onto the iPad.
Jeremy walked around the bed, reached for my hand, and was close enough for me to rest my forehead against his firm chest. With his other hand, he soothingly and most welcomelystroked my back.
“The nurse will assist you into a sling and give you some pain meds. Are you allergic to anything?”
“Only seasonal allergies and pet dander.”
“Fair enough.”
“Wait,” I said, peeking around Jeremy. “Because it’s like mildly sprained, it means a quick heal, right? Like two to three days, and I’ll be good as new?”
Derek rose to his full height, his expression changing to a borderline chagrin. “You’ll still need to be in a sling for a few days to let it properly heal.”
“I have the concert next week.” There was no way I could play the flute while wearing a sling.
“Then I suggest plenty of rest, lots of hydration, and you may be able to play. But if you strain yourself, you’ll only regret it as it’ll push back your recovery.” There was almost a tsk-tsk sound on the tip of his tongue.
My lip quivered, and I wanted to scream. First my solo, now the shop.
Oh beans! The Coffee Loft. How was I going to man the espresso machine and coffee makers with only one arm?
And the flute… Losing the solo wasn’t just disappointing—it felt like I was letting everyone down.
“Molly,” his voice took on a softer, friendlier tone. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but it’s what’s best for healing.” He scratched a pen across a pad of paper, and ripped a sheet off, handing me a prescription. “If you need it. The nurse will be back with anti-inflammatories and your sling.”
“Fan-frappachino-tastic,” I huffed while shaking my head.
Before he had the curtain open, the nurse came in with her supplies. I remained as quiet as Jeremy, turning my thoughts inward and allowing them to run amok over not beingable to play and do what I love.
“All done, dearie. You’re good to go home.” I’d been so deep into my own head; I didn’t even realise she’d been talking and spouting aftercare instructions until she handed me a paper with some tips. “Remember, the first two are crucial.”
“Thanks.” I inched forward on the bed and set my shaky feet on the floor.
“Wait.” Jeremy walked in front of me, holding my jacket open for me.
I slipped my arm in and he brought the other side over and slowly buttoned it closed, taking extra caution as he neared my arm snuggled against my chest. He even freed my hair trapped under the collar.
“Thank you.” I gazed up into his eyes.
He rocked back on his heels and spoke low and slow. “You’re welcome, Molly.”
“I appreciate you being here. Truly. Thank you.”
“Home?”
“Yes.” I grabbed the folded paper with my prescription and led the way out of the curtained area.
The ER was quiet, and Derek was leaning against the triage desk chatting up the nurse as he typed on the device. His gaze flicked up as we passed, a half-frown tugging at his lips. I couldn’t tell if he looked guilty or angry—or maybe a mix of both. Either way, I kept walking, Jeremy’s hand warm around mine. There was no point in turning back now.
Chapter Seven
The ride out of town and down the dark highway to the motel was a non-talkative ride. However, it wasn’t completely silent; with every shift in gears, Jeremy released a low growl that matched the grinding and jerking motion. Apparently, it wasn’t like riding a bike again.
I wanted to explain how it needed a tune-up desperately but then I didn’t want to explain how my barista job barely covered my basics. When I learned my parents were milking my bank account for all they could, at the behest of my agent, I hired a financial planner who set up a trust fund account. Part of my earnings were shifted into that account, but I couldn’t touch it until I turned twenty-nine. I only had to wait three more years.
As much as it sucked living paycheque to paycheque, there was something wonderful about owning my own expenses, even if there wasn’t a lot of wiggle room at the end of the month for random expenses like fixing a car. So I made do and pushed back repairs since the car was functional at 80%.