Page 1 of Six Month Wife

1

Adair

I’mthirty days from financial ruin, and my best friend just traded our waterfront cocktails for a front-row seat in the ER. I really needed that overpriced Moscow Mule and maybe a reckless flirtation with a hot stranger to take the edge off.

Instead, I’m holding Jenna upright while she curses gravity and ruins my last clean sundress.

“This is what happens when you speed-walk in heels like you’re late to a Vogue shoot.”

Jenna groans and clutches my arm harder as I haul her through the automatic doors of the ER. She’s so dramatic. But so am I, so we’re made for each other.

Her ankle is swollen and turning colors that no limb should. That is a fact.

I know I heard something pop when she hit the sidewalk. Now, whether that was her ankle or a seismic shift at the exact moment of impact, no one can say for sure.

“This is so embarrassing,” she hisses. “I barely tripped. You’re completely overreacting.”

“I’m overreacting? You rolled around and groaned like a feral raccoon caught in a karaoke bar.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“Seriously, though. You went down hard, your foot went sideways, and your body literally bounced off the concrete. Do you see how swollen your ankle is? Better to be safe than sorry, especially since you’re flying out in the morning.”

A nurse behind the front desk glances up. I throw her a tight smile that screams, “Please help my friend before I lose it.”

She's nonplussed, so I accept the clipboard she hands over and look for a place to sit.

Jenna tries to balance and stumbles, even on her good leg, and crashes against me. I wrap an arm around her waist and guide her down gently to the chair, muttering, “I got you.”

Once I get her into a seat, I grab the clipboard back, already scribbling. I go directly into mom-mode.

“Address?”

The form is endless—insurance, address, emergency contacts. My anxiety continues to rise as I scribble in her info. Jenna’s ankle is ballooning before my eyes, and the longer this takes, the worse it looks.

I shoot a glance toward the desk, wondering why no one is moving. Can't they see we have a woman in distress over here?

“Come on,” I mutter. “Do we need to bring in a marching band to get seen around here?”

My phone buzzes in my bag. It's probably Bets, wondering why I haven’t sent the updated numbers for Citrine.

I ignore it. She wanted me to sit down with her this afternoon, but I already told her I had company in town. Ithought we would be spending our last day sipping cocktails on the water, not hanging out in the ER waiting room. But when duty calls, cocktails take a back seat.

A triage nurse calls us back, and Jenna winces as she hobbles toward the curtained exam room.

After the nurse takes her vitals and leaves us to wait for God knows who to come see us next, Jenna looks over at me. She gives me a weak smile. “You missed your investor meeting for this. I'm an ass. Forgive me?”

“You're the opposite of an ass. If I had to choose between you and Bets judging my profit margins, I’m picking your busted ankle every time. Things aren’t going so well right now, and I don’t want to face reality, anyway.”

As soon as I say it, I wish I could take it back. I've been shielding her from my business woes her entire trip here. I don't want to admit it to anyone, especially Jenna. I want everyone to believe things are hunky dorey.

She frowns. “Citrine’s not doing well? I know you've been going in a lot during my visit, but figured that was because business was good.”

I let out a quiet laugh as I smooth the crinkled paper on the exam table and help her swing her leg up, careful not to jostle it.

“I wish. I'm down to only one employee, so I've had to fill in. I'll be fine, though, and Citrine will be fine. We're just going through a situation.”

Jenna props her head on the lump masquerading as a pillow on the paper-covered table. Concern softens her voice. “Why are you just now telling me this?”