Lisa.
Mason: I hope you're not dead, but only because my daughter is distraught over you right now, and if you're dead, I can't kick your ass for hurting her.
--
Red lights flash and project around the bay where the ambulance pulls up to the hospital. I've shooed the paramedics away at every turn. My ribs are fucked. I don't need a medical professional to tell me that.
Jackson has been in and out of consciousness because he's too fucking stupid to wear a helmet, and I'm not leaving his side.
They pull the back doors open and lift Jackson's stretcher. He's strapped down on a hard board. Something I'm hoping is just a precaution, considering he can easily move his feet. He was awake for long enough they were able to get him to do that much.
I follow, ignoring the lancing pain in my back and feeling every year of my age about a hundred times over. It doesn't help that I didn't sleep a wink last night.
When I closed my eyes, all I saw was Roseanne. Her perfect lips. Her deep brown eyes shrink-wrapped in tears.
Fucking haunting.
But right now, I just need to know that Jackson is okay. I follow into the emergency room, ignoring the skeptical glances one paramedic gives me. She knows I'm lying to them about my injury. Plus, I made a huge scene about going with Jackson, so I'm probably not in their good books.
I'll get a tour doctor to check me out later.
"You." She points at me. "Sit there." She points at the plastic chair just inside the door as they wheel Jackson through, and this time, I listen.
I gasp when I bend to sit, dropping my head into my hands and breathing shallow, hoping the pain will subside if I don't move.
I'm not sure how long I sit here lost in the pain of my ribs and the worry about my friend when I hear,
"Lisa. Long hair. Hair bangs. Handsome. Probably a total asshole to you?"
It's Roseanne's distraught voice, brimming with pain and anxiety and panic. As if I didn't already feel sick enough about my dickhead behavior yesterday and making her cry-fuck, that killed me-now I have to listen to her terrified voice.
It feels like rolling in glass, a thousand cuts all over my body, to hear her so upset. And I did that to her. Yesterday. Today.
"Lisa!"
When I see her, I heave. Pain radiates everywhere. Mascara streams down her face as she jogs down the hallway toward me, fingers wrapped around the cuffs of her sleeves. Beautiful and devastated.
I did that.
"Oh, my God. Are you okay?" She falls to her knees in front of me, hands fluttering above my legs before she lets herself touch me. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes scan me, as though she'll be able to see broken bones through my clothes and skin.
"I'm fine." I hurt too much to move. A part of me thinks I should touch her. The other part knows I should salvage her from the pain of this, of watching me do this. With my dad and brothers, their emotions are locked up. I don't know if they're actually afraid for me or just making fun of me.
But with Roseanne, I can see it plain as day.
Fear.
"I saw you." Her hands move lightly, so lightly, up my arms and over my shoulders. She sniffs as she takes me in. "I saw it happen."
My chest caves in. After the words we exchanged last night, I don't know what to make of this. But I know that seeing her this upset is killing me. It's turning my stomach.
When she touches my ribs, I flinch. She lifts my shirt before I can stop her.
"Oh, God. Lisa." Her voice cracks, and I watch a fat tear fall from her eye. It rolls off her dark lashes and splatters on her cheek.
It breaks my fucking heart.
