13
Gigi
Ihad just laid down, exactly ten seconds before the knocking started.
Trying to catch a cab had taken forever for some reason. Jillian had texted many times while I was at the hospital to see how Beau was doing. She ordered me to call her when we needed a ride and she’d come get me.
When Beau stabilized, I told her we’d catch a cab home, and not to wait up. I wasn’t sure if they’d want to keep Beau overnight for observation or not. There was no sense in keeping Jillian up.
“Go away,” I whined, feeling like crying at how tired I was. While I appreciated whatever worried well-wisher was at the door, all I wanted to do was sleep.
The knocking continued.
“No, no, no, no,” I said, blubbering like a baby as I stumbled through my living room. When I arrived safely at my door, I checked out the peephole. “What the heck?” I whispered to myself. I decided to slowly back away from the door and pretend I wasn’t home.
“For Christ’s sake, I can hear you, Geneviève. Open up,” Beau said, his voice annoyed. He knocked again.
I shook my head and prayed for strength as I unlocked the door. “What are you—” I tried to say before his hands slipped under my armpits and lifted me up. He walked inside, set me down, then handed me a bag.
“All my medications. If I have another attack, you need to administer—something,” he said, tossing his ripped shirt onto the floor. I heard his zipper—well, unzip. “I’m so fucking tired, I can’t even see straight.”
He slipped his jeans down and stepped out of them, leaving those on the floor a few yards from his shirt. Next, the bathroom door slammed, and the water turned on. “Oh, good grief.”
Then I opened up the bag of meds and sorted through what was what.
The instructions from the doctor were straightforward, but I left them out on the counter anyway, just in case. Because apparently, he was staying the night.
Or what was left of the night.
I wandered back into my room and slipped under my comforter. A minute or two later, I heard the shower turn off. My stomach tightened, thinking of a towel covered Beau in my bathroom.
The bathroom door opened, and I held my breath. I could hear his footsteps in the hall. “You’re supposed to listen to me tonight. If I start breathing funny or swelling up again, then—shit, I can’t remember,” Beau said as he entered my room.
He tossed his towel to the floor and climbed into my bed.
“Uh, Beau? What are you doing? Why didn’t they keep you in the hospital for observation if they were worried about a relapse?”
“I told them you’d watch me.”
“Oh.”
I usedmy small flashlight on his face again, just like I had through the night. His eyes looked much less swollen. So did his lips. The redness and hives had all but disappeared from his neck and chest.
Beau squinted at me. “Turn that damn thing off already. Jesus, how many times did you blast that in my face?” he asked, his voice gravely.
“Open up, let me see if you have any swelling left in your mouth,” I ordered him, lowering the beam of light to his lips. He was almost at the six hour mark now. Just about home free.
“That’s not where I’m swelling.”
I inhaled, calming myself down. Inside my head, I went over what I was supposed to do next. “Where are you swelling? Your throat?”
“Lower.”
I moved the light to his chest. “Your lungs? Are you having trouble breathing?” I asked, feeling more alarmed at the thought of having to give him another shot.
“Lower.”
“What?”