99 Reasons Why It Wasn't Love

24 | Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six

It took less then a month for me to update. Huzzah. Dedicated to xShe3Believes5x because she always has something positive to say - thank you! The song they are listening to, "Somebody to Love" by Queen, is over on the side. [can you tell that I love Freddie Mercury a little bit or a lot a bit?]

Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six

“It’s time,” Thatcher said ceremoniously, “for celebratory music.”

Before I could protest, he was enthusiastically jamming the keys into the ignition, switching on the radio with his free hand. After being advised by Dr. McKinley to avoid stress, getting into the car with world’s worst driver was the last thing I wanted to do – but it didn’t look like I had much of a choice.

“Just because I don’t have a concussion –“

“- doesn’t mean you don’t have ‘minor head trauma,’” he finished, “right, right, I know. I was there. Completed crossword and all.”

Thatcher proceeded to flip through the stations at lightning speed, ignoring my pleas in favor of finding the perfect rock and roll ballad to express his – and to some extent, my – emotions about being diagnosed as ‘not concussed.’

“I mean, c’mon, it’s nothing short of an early Christmas miracle,” he said cheerfully. “You hit my bumper pretty hard.”

“I noticed.”

“Like, I mean, wow.” He chuckled, softly, the perfect picture of disbelief. Man, would I like to wipe that stupid grin off his face. The memory of my physical injury shouldn’t have brought him this much joy.

“Wow,” I echoed, noticeably less awed.

“No, no, no, not ‘wow.’ ‘Wow.’”

“Wow.”

“Close enough.”

He shot me a glance, still smiling, and I tried to reciprocate his gleeful expression. Key word: tried.

Barely steadying the steering wheel, Thatcher backed out of the parking space, still trying to operate the radio one handed. When he almost went flying, backwards, into a beat-up truck, I decided it was time for me to intervene.

I slid one hand over his on the center console, trying to ignore the way we both flinched as they brushed. The back of my neck was burning – never a good sign – but I elected to ignore it, instead busying myself with the various knobs and doohickeys, way too much technology for a man who could barely tie a tie or put on his shirt the right way.

“What – exactly – am I looking for?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Something soulful, with some punk vibes. Something I can simultaneously drive, dance, and cry to.”

“Right.”

Apparently, Thatcher and I interpreted this emergency room trip very differently.