TMI (16 page)

Tired. It was the only thought that consciously formed in Meg's mind.

Her feet shuffled along the dark street, her eyes unfocused.

“Megan! What's wrong?”

She jerked and froze like she'd been zapped with a bolt of lightning. There was Chase in the car that had pulled up beside her, the car she'd hardly noticed.

“I'm fine.” She started walking again. Chase jumped from the car with a curse.

“You're not fine. What the hell happened?” He blocked her path, gestured to the pocket of her hoodie, where she'd tucked her hand.

She followed his gaze, saw the dark wet stain, and inhaled sharply. Gently, he tugged her hand from the pocket. The towel she'd wrapped around it was drenched.

“Get in the car,” he ordered, his mouth pressed in a tight line. When she didn't move, he pushed her toward the open door.

“The seats,” she protested.

“Get in the damn car, Megan.” He opened the back door, shoved her in, slammed the front door, and then climbed in the backseat with her.

“Megan, tell us what happened.” Dave Gallagher demanded and pulled back into traffic with a squeal of tires.

“Megan?” Chase snapped his fingers when she didn't reply to his dad. “Talk to me. What happened?” He stripped out of his own hoodie and then his T-shirt and wrapped the shirt around her hand.

She blinked, and then her eyes traveled down his naked chest. Chase quickly pulled the hoodie over his head. “Um, I was slicing an apple and the knife slipped.”

“When?” Dave asked.

“Uh, I don't—when I got home from school.”

“Shit, Megan, that was four hours ago. Why didn't you call us immediately?” Dave increased speed.

“I…I didn't think it was that bad. I thought…I figured it would stop bleeding.”

Chase increased the pressure on her hand and she hissed in a breath.

“Sorry, sorry. I know it hurts.”

“It didn't. Not until now,” she murmured, her words slurring.

They arrived at the emergency room entrance minutes later. Chase tugged her out, but as soon as she put one foot on the ground, she wobbled and her vision grayed. She felt Chase scoop her up under the knees and carry her through the ER entrance.

“I need help here!”

Was that his voice? It shook and sounded almost shrill.

Suddenly, a wheelchair held her. Chase was talking to someone, his voice still weird. “Her hand is pouring blood. She says the knife slipped while she was cutting up an apple, but that was hours ago. Maybe three o'clock. She didn't think it was that bad, so she started working on a painting.” They unwrapped her hand, poked at the gaping sides of the wound.

“Get the vascular on call down here,” the nurse said to his colleague. “What's your name?” a white blob asked her.

“Megan. Megan Farrell.”

“You her boyfriend?” the white blob asked

And before Meg could think of a response, Chase replied, “Yeah, her mother's working. She doesn't know.”

“We'll call her. Put her in bed seven!”

They pushed her chair behind a large room with lots of curtains.

“Megan. My name's John. We're gonna take care of you. Can you climb up here for me?”

She started to stand but wondered where
here
was. She didn't see anything. Leaning heavily on the arms of the chair that felt like it was now spinning, she reached out a hand, felt a bed to her right, and all but collapsed onto it.

“Megan, can you tell me your full name?”

Meg blinked and frowned. “Megan Elise Farrell.”

“Good. How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Good, good. Tell me what day it is, Megan.”

“Um…Monday?”

“That's good.”

Meg felt a warm heavy blanket cover her.

“She's a little shocky. Start an IV.”

They stuck a monitor on one of her fingers and she could hear cabinets and drawers opening and closing, the sound of metal meeting metal, footsteps rushing in.

“I called her mother.”

“No! I'm fine. She doesn't need to come.” Meg tried to sit up, but hands gently restrained her. A minute later, she felt a pinch in her good hand. Then tape was wrapped around it.

“You are not fine, Megan. You've lost a decent amount of blood and your body is starting to go into shock. If you hadn't gotten here when you did, we'd be transfusing. As it is, this is gonna need at least a dozen stitches, maybe more.”

Someone—Chase?—gripped her arm and squeezed.

“I left a voice mail,” Dave said.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Never been so happy my kid's a Peeping Tom—”

“Jesus, Dad, not now!”

Chase's voice sounded like him again. And her vision started to dial back in until another white-robed medic prodded and poked and tugged at her wound. Oh, God! The pain crossed her eyes and burned a track all the way to her brain, and she reached blindly for Chase's hand. He took it and squeezed. With his other hand, he smoothed her hair, and she shut her eyes, grateful for his presence.

Another spike of pain had her eyes flying open. The doctor was flushing out the wound with some syringe full of fluid that burned. Her eyes met Chase's and she flashed a smile—
that
smile, the one just for him.

It was second, maybe third grade when they'd first met. Chase and his family had just moved to the house behind Meg's. He seemed pretty shy, but during recess on his first day of school, he ran for the slide and had reached the top step when Peter Sidell pushed him off. He wasn't hurt, but he came up ready to fight. So Meg ran up and pounded Peter the second his light-up sneakers touched the rubber mat. He ran off crying while Chase just stared at her, kind of the way he does now. So she gave him a cookie.

Maybe that's what did it. That's when they'd both fallen with a splat.

Something stabbed her, tearing her right out of those daydreams. Jesus, the doctor was injecting something right into the gash itself. “Talk to me, Megan,” Chase demanded. “What painting are you working on now? Oils? Watercolors?”

“Acrylics.” She pushed the word through gritted teeth.

“Acrylics. I'm not very good with acrylics. They dry so fast.”

“That's why I like them,” she said. “I can change stuff if I don't like how it comes out the first time.” Her voice rose and fell with the pain.

“What about watercolors? Are they hard?”

“Yeah, I like tube color better than pan paints. But I never get the same color mixed twice.”

“I guess that's the point,” Chase said.

Her eyes met his, surprised. “I never thought of that. That's a good point.” She considered that for a few minutes—how each artist mixes and layers her colors. And then the pain flared again.

“What about working flat? You can't use an easel with watercolors, right?”

Again, she looked surprised. “How do you know so much about this? I didn't even know you liked art until this weekend.”

Chase shrugged. “You like it. So I've been…uh, studying.”

“Why would you bother?”

He didn't answer.

“That's it. All done,” the doctor announced, and she saw Chase's eyes shut in relief. “Thirteen stitches, some inside, some out. We'll get a sterile dressing on it, and you'll be good to go.” The doctor left and Meg lifted her hand to examine her wound. A line of stiff black threads followed the angry red trail in the webbing between her left thumb and index finger. Slowly, Meg flexed her hand.

“Easy, Megan. You'll tear,” Chase's dad reminded her.

“Relax. You're right-handed. You can still paint. For everything else, I'll help you and so will Bailey,” Chase promised.

To her profound embarrassment, she burst into tears.

“Jesus, Megan! It's okay. We'll take care of you.”

“Bailey won't!” Meg shook her head. “It's her fault this even happened.”

“What are you talking about?”

Meg shot a glance at Dave Gallagher.

“Um…I'm going to step outside and try calling your mom again.” Dave jerked his chin toward the corridor.

Chase nodded gratefully. When his dad left, Meg couldn't stop herself from venting.

“The underwear. She told everybody I wet my pants in first grade. Posted it on freakin' Facebook! Chase, it was horrible. Every class, even in the hallways, people kept throwing their underwear at me.”

“Hey, rock stars live for that shit,” he offered with a grin, and she knew it was a lame shot at making her laugh.

She rolled her eyes. “I'm not a rock star!”

His smile faded. “So Bailey's mad at you, huh?”

Meg shrugged and then winced in pain. “I'm tired, Chase. Just so tired. Every time she meets a new guy, she pulls away from me. She never hears me when I tell her how great she is. But she listens to them. A guy she never met said I told him she threw up all over our teacher. I never told him that. I wouldn't do that. But she believes him.”

When Chase didn't say anything, Meg let her head fall back against the gurney and shut her eyes.

“I'm sorry for spacing out on you,” she said quietly.

Chase huffed out a breath. “I don't know why you didn't call us. You could have passed out on the street, been snatched up, run over, or just bled to death.”

He took her good hand in his and Meg felt him shake. She shifted over. “Sit. You look worse than I do.”

He moved without hesitating. Meg felt warm with him beside her.

“I'm sorry about what I said on Saturday. It wasn't fair. I know you're only trying to protect Bailey.”

She fidgeted. Looked down at her stitched-up hand. Looked back into magic eyes. “Forget it.”

“How's your head. Are you dizzy?”

“No, not anymore. Just tired.” Her stomach let out a low rumble and she laughed weakly. “And hungry.”

Chase jumped up. “I'll find a vending machine. M&M's?”

She breathed deeply, shut her eyes. Chase had found her. She didn't know how he knew that she'd needed help, but she was so happy he'd came. He was right. She wouldn't have made it. She hadn't realized how close she was to passing out until he'd settled her into the backseat of the car. She could hardly hold her head up. The IV in her hand was doing a lot to clear the fuzz from her brain. The drugs the doctor had pumped into her wound had killed the burn. What was Mr. Gallagher talking about before with that Peeping Tom stuff? Maybe Chase watched her the way she watched him. She'd have to remember to close the blinds.

She felt soft lips brush her forehead and she jerked, blinking into Chase's eyes. “What?”

He shook his head. “You fell asleep. Here. Have some sugar.” He spread out his haul and she moved straight for the M&M's. He smiled when she tore the package open with her teeth, tilted half of it into her open mouth. That did surprise him.

“Oh…sorry. Want some?”

“Yeah, if you're sure I won't lose a finger if I try.” He laughed when she shot him a glare and held out his hand. They popped M&M's and Dave rejoined them.

“I finally got a hold of your mother. They want to keep you here overnight—”

“No!”

Dave raised his hands. “Easy, easy. She said the same thing, so the doctor agreed to release you into
my
care.”

Chase made a strange strangling sound and Meg blinked at both of them. “What does that mean?”

“It means you're coming home with us for the night. No arguments,” he added when her mouth opened to protest.

Meg shut her mouth and remained quiet while the doctor removed her IV, provided some instructions for caring for her wound, and sent them on their way. Chase held her elbow while she walked to the car. She wanted to wrestle away but knew she was too weak to walk a straight line by herself. She climbed into the backseat and stretched herself out before he could join her and let herself drift on the meds the hospital had pumped into her veins.

Bailey huddled into her shearling jacket and jogged across the street to Meg's house. She mentally rehearsed the apology she'd make to Meg, even though Meg didn't really deserve it and was totally overreacting to stuff and should just mind her own damn business. She was in the middle of her speech when she came to an abrupt, jaw-dropping halt.

Toilet paper hung from every branch on every tree. Rolls of it—some down to the cardboard tubes—littered the lawn. Fruit of the Looms hung like deflated Christmas balls from the porch rails and diapers covered the porch near the front door. Holy cannoli! All this from one little Facebook post? Meg must be so pissed. Bailey hadn't seen her at lunch and figured she was just sulking, but it was obvious she really did owe her that apology now. She took a step up Meg's path when the sound of slow clapping had her spinning around.

“Chase!” She pressed a hand to her racing heart.

“You come to admire your work?” He stalked toward her, picked up a toilet paper roll, and thrust it into her hands. As if the sight of her made him sick, he turned his back and furiously shook out a large green trash bag.

“I didn't do this!”

“Yeah, Bay, you did.” Chase shoved cardboard tubes into the bag. “You posted that bitchy comment online and the entire school ganged up on her. You even conned
me
into hurting her.”

She caught her lip between her teeth and looked away. God, she'd thought that was hilarious this afternoon. Now it made her feel like…well, used toilet paper. Oh, poor Meg! She'd only wanted to get her to back off Ryder, not embarrass her. Okay, she did want to embarrass her too for telling Ryder she'd thrown up all over her teacher, but not this much. Meg would hate her forever and it was all her fault. She spun and ran up the porch steps, knocked quickly on the door.

“Don't bother. She's not there.” Chase pulled clumps of tissue off tree branches and stuffed them in the bag.

“How do you know?”

“Because she's at my house, asleep in my bed.”

Bailey's eyes went round, and she hurried down the steps, determined to get every juicy detail out of Chase. But he only rolled his eyes and went back to picking up the litter. “Nothing happened, Bailey. Not like that. Because of your little stunt today, she never ate lunch. She decided to cut up an apple after school and nearly bled to death when the knife went through her hand. My dad and I took her to the hospital. She got thirteen stitches and practically passed out.” He stalked toward her. “Because of
you
.”

Bailey shook her head and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Oh, no! God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Chase!”

“And then we get home and see this,” Chase said and waved a hand in an arc over the front yard. “Why did you do that to her? Are you guys like
not
friends anymore or something?”

Bailey took an edge of the trash bag and tried to hold it open for Chase, but he yanked it from her hands. “I don't know what we are anymore. She makes me so mad! She told Ryder I threw up all over Miss Monroe in first grade. Then she pretends she doesn't know why I'm mad. I like this guy, Chase. I really like him and he likes me! Why would she tell him those things?”

Chase moved around the shrubs, grabbing the briefs hanging from them. He probably wasn't listening, which meant he wouldn't be talking to her anymore either and probably wouldn't want to help her with her game anymore and—

“So…what? You wanted to get even? She told one guy something silly about you, so you thought you'd tell the whole freakin' Internet something silly about her?”

“It wasn't the
whole
Internet, just…you know, my Facebook friends.”

Chase threw his head back and stared at the sky for a long moment. “Yeah, all two hundred of them plus their friends and their friends' friends. Christ, Bailey, we're lucky they're not driving here in buses to trash this house.”

Bailey sniffled and walked up the steps to the porch, started collecting the diapers. Thirteen stitches! Oh, God. Meg wouldn't be able to paint. That was going to torture her. It would be like not being able to play video games or do her hair or put on makeup. The tears fell and Bailey vowed to make it up to Meg, starting with the apology Ryder insisted on and then being her slave until the stitches came out.

“Damn it.” Chase's sigh of frustration sounded right behind her, and when she looked around, he opened his arms. She fell into them with a sob.

“I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt her. Well, crap, that's not true! I did want to hurt her, only a little, not a lot. Not like this, I swear.”

“Okay, okay. I believe you. Just…help me finish this up before her mother gets home, okay?”

Bailey wiped her face with her fingertips and worked with Chase to clean up the yard. It took nearly an hour, and he had to give her a boost into the tree so she could pull tissue from some of the higher branches. Bailey stuffed the last of it into the trash bag, figured they'd picked up at least fifty or sixty rolls, trying to think of ways she could earn Meg's forgiveness. The first thing she'd do would be to update Facebook with news of Meg's injury so everyone would be nice to her tomorrow, and then she'd wake up extra early to make Meg breakfast. Oh, she would probably need help getting dressed, so Bailey decided to get up even earlier so she could go to Meg's to help Meg shower and do her hair
and
make her breakfast. Wait, Chase said she was asleep at his house. She'd have to go there tomorrow. He couldn't help Meg in the shower, though she was sure he wouldn't mind one bit. Then again, if he tried, Meg would probably deck him with her good hand. She swallowed a grin, imagining it all.

“What time do you get up?”

Chase bent to pick up another diaper. “Around sixty-thirty. Why?”

“I'm coming over to help Meg get dressed.”

Chase snapped up, turned, and stared at the front door. “Right. She'll need help. Come on. Let's pack her a bag.” He walked up the porch steps and tried the front door.

Locked.

“What time does her mother come home?” Chase asked.

Bailey shrugged. “It depends if she's at work or at school.”

“She goes to school?”

“Yeah, she's getting a degree in accounting. She works at the diner on Main Street too.”

Chase sighed. “You got any clothes that'll fit Meg?”

Bailey frowned, mentally inventorying her closet. Meg was taller and thinner than she was but wore the same size shoes. “Yeah, I think so. Come on. I'll pack you a bag.”

“Nah, I gotta get back. Just come over at like six-thirty.”

“The bus comes at six-forty.”

He blinked. “So?”

Bailey rolled her eyes. “You're such a guy. Girls do a little more than roll out of bed, tie on shoes, and leave.”

Chase held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Come over whenever then. I'll be asleep on the couch, so I'll hear you knock.”

Chase took the stuffed trash bag and headed home. Bailey walked back across the street and ran upstairs to her room, deep in thought. She flicked on the light, sat at her computer, and opened Facebook.

Hey, just heard Meg Farrell got like 13 stitches in her hand. Everyone should be nice to her tomorrow.

There! That should stop the potty-training jokes. Her computer pinged, and she saw a chat window from Ryder.

Bailey paused, hating the very thought of Ryder upset with her.

She beamed, ridiculously happy that he remembered what she'd said.

Bailey didn't know that—not for sure—but a tight little ball of guilt curled in her belly when she thought of Meg bleeding and all alone and upset.

Bailey chewed a nail for a moment, wishing she could ask Meg what to do. Meg would probably hold up her middle finger and then stand with one hip out, cross her arms, and say something totally supportive like, “He had his chance and blew it. You deserve better, Bay. You deserve someone who will adore you.”

She slipped her phone in her pocket and started going through her clothes for stuff that would look good on Meg.