Page 88 of Middle Ground

I don’t think I’m hurt, but I can’t tell for sure.

A frantic knock at my window has me turning my head, but I can’t even fully see who stands on the other side.

“Miss?” someone calls. “Are you alright?”

I think I nod. My fingers fumble with the latch, trying to unhook my seatbelt. My whole being shakes. I feel like I’m floating; like I don’t know where my body is.

All I do know is that those brakes should have worked.

I refused the ambulance that was offered to me, but one of the police constables that responded to the scene, a regular at the restaurant with his wife and kids, insisted that I go to the hospital. He didn’t take no for an answer, so here I am, sitting in the waiting room.

I spoke to a doctor not that long ago, and she said she wanted an x-ray of my chest to check if my ribs are broken or simply bruised. Although there’s nothing simple about the discomfort I feel right now.

When I pull out my phone, I see a text from Jackson waiting, asking if I made it to Calderville. I wince as I begin to type a reply.

So exactly how attached are you to your car?

His reply comes instantly.

Hotshot

What happened?

I may have gotten into a bit of an accident.

I try to start typing another message, but my phone begins to ring. I grimace as I pick up the call, preparing for his inevitable anger. I wrecked his car, after all. I’d be pissed at me.

“I’m so sorry,” I say immediately. “I?—“

“Where are you?” he demands.

“I’m at the hospital. Jackson, I?—”

“In Fraisier Creek?”

“Yes?” It comes out more like a question than a statement.

“I’ll be there in five.”

I don’t have a chance to say anything more before the line clicks. But true to his word, five minutes later, the sliding doors of the emergency department open. He scans the waiting area until he spots me, and then he’s crossing the room in quick strides.

Jackson drops to a crouch in front of my chair. “Are you okay?” he asks. “What happened?”

“How did you get here so fast?” I ask instead.

“Pippa dropped me off. Tell me where you’re hurt.”

I frown. “Sorry about your car.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, then rests his hands on either armrest of my chair, caging me in. “Baby, I don’t give a shit about the car.”

I shake my head. “I tried to stop, but it just wouldn’t. I promise I didn’t?—”

“Hey,” he says gently. “I mean it, Meyer. I could not care less about the fucking car. All that matters is you. Soare you okay?”

There’s a restless edge to his words. When I take a second to study him, I can see the panic thrumming beneath his outwardly calm façade.Idid that. I affected him like that.

There’s a burning in my chest. Whether from my potentially broken ribs or Jackson’s words, I’m not sure. But the need to reassure him wins out.