“Broken bones,” I managed to get out. “Still on crutches.”
“Oh, poor you. But I’m so glad you’re okay otherwise. They wouldn’t let me see you in the hospital. Said I wasn’t family.”
“Thanks for trying.”
“I’m super, super happy you’re okay!”
“Daisy, can you confirm what happened that night?” I asked, keeping my tone easy and laid-back. “All those drugs they gave me at the hospital—I want to make sure I’m not fuzzy on anything. Don’t want my car insurance company to screw me by coming up with some random reason to decline cover.”
“Oh, sure!” Daisy all but bubbled over. “Well, we met in Marco’s. I went with a friend of mine who works at your publishing house. I was wearing the cutest silver dress, and you came over and complimented me, and you’d asked the mixologist to make me a cocktail, and—”
I zoned out as she went on and on about the party, only zoning back in when she got to the part about getting in my car. “I was taking you for a ride?”
“Sure! Like, to see the ocean at night. Super romantic.” She giggled and it made me want to smile despite my shitty mood; no wonder I’d hit on her. I had a thing for happy, giggly girls. I was a bastard to them, but I was a generous bastard and always broke up with diamonds or rubies.
Except with Paige.
She was the one who’d made the choice to leave.
She was the one who couldn’t stand me anymore.
She was the one who’d lied.
18
“What about the accident?”
“It was a total freak thing. It was freezing that time of night—three in the morning—and rain had started coming down without warning, and there was this car ahead of us that suddenly stepped hard on its brakes.
“You reacted fast, but there was something slick on the road. Later the cops said a truck had flipped and spilled oil and it hadn’t been properly cleaned up. You skidded into a spin and hit the tree.”
I fisted, then flexed my hand. “You’re okay?”
“Just got punched in the face and in the side by the air bags. Two black eyes, some other bruising, but nothing broken.” No lack of cheer in her voice even now. “It totally wasn’t your fault. You weren’t even speeding since we were doing the romantic drive thing.”
“Thanks.” I meant it.
“You’ve been in an accident before though, right? I hope this didn’t bring up too many bad memories.”
The Coke residue was suddenly sickeningly sweet on my tongue. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, after the accident, while I was trying to keep you conscious, you kept saying the taillights were round last time. Over and over. Then one time you mumbled that your leg had hurt worse that time and you hadn’t meant to—”
I held my breath.
“That’s it. That’s all you said before the ambulance came and, boy, was I happy to see them.”
Sweat coated my back. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
The words worked to distract her. Giggling with delight, she told me about her return to work, and how everyone had been so nice, and how she was “super hoping” we could “finish our date” after I was “all better.”
“I’ll call you.” Hell, I might even do that.
It wasn’t as if Paige was breaking down the door in a rush to reconcile.
After hanging up, I wrote down Daisy’s account of my words. Round taillights. I underlined the two words over and over, until I made a hole in the page.
The ping of an incoming email broke my intent focus on the notebook, and had me glancing at my watch. “Shit.”
I got moving and made it to Dr. Binchy’s surgery five minutes before my appointment. My good leg bounced as I sat there waiting in a large glass-and-chrome cube lined with a plush carpet, while a neat middle-aged woman sat behind the reception desk.
I hadn’t looked at the lettering on the door when I walked in, but now got up and hobbled over to pick up one of the business cards on the reception desk. The middle-aged woman smiled at me. I smiled back, the reflex automatic.
I didn’t look at the card until I was sitting down.
Dr. Marcell Binchy, Neurosurgeon
A jumble of letters were listed below:
BHB (Hons), MBChB, FRACS, F—
“Mr. Rai?” The receptionist smiled. “Go on through.”
Shoving the card into my jeans pocket, I got up and began to make my way to the office. All the while, the monkeys in my brain were screaming. Dr. Binchy was as I’d remembered him—thank fucking God—a tall fifty-something man with a small potbelly in an otherwise trim frame, a thick head of silvered brown hair, and a clean-shaven face. His hazel eyes were bright behind black frames, his skin winter pale.
Then who was the grandmotherly woman with brown skin and no bedside manner?
“Aarav,” he said, rising to shake my hand. “Onto a cane now. That’s a good sign. Dr. Tawera will be pleased.”
Dr. Tawera. Of course that was her. My orthopedic surgeon with the unexpectedly strong hands. “I’m not sure when I’m seeing her next,” I said past the gibbering monkeys. “I probably have it on my phone calendar.” Though when the fuck I’d entered all these dates was lost in the black hole of my mind.
“I have it here, too,” Dr. Binchy said as he took his seat. “All part of your overall care. Let’s see … ah, you’re booked to see her in a week.”
He turned from the computer. “So, how are you?”
“Fine, I think.” The words just came out of my mouth.
“That’s what you say every week.”
I couldn’t remember being in this office every damn week. “Doc, what the hell happened to me?”
“This is the first time you’ve asked that question.” A faint smile. “So I think you really must be getting better.” Shifting to his right, he picked up a file, but the action seemed to be more out of habit than anything else, because he spoke without looking at it.
“Bare basics—you
