“Yeah, right,” I mumble, digging in my purse for my phone, ignoring the numerous texts from Joy. Instead, I focus on what to text Charlie. Even after five minutes, all I can come up with is:
Me: Heyyyy.
Rolling my eyes at my stupid brain, I rub my forehead and press send, leaning onto the crappy plastic pillow.
The nurse smiles at me. “Okay, I’ll be back with your discharge papers.”
“Thank you. Do you need my insurance card?”
As if it weren’t bad enough dreading Charlie’s reply, now I’m dreading the bill. My deductible is a thousand dollars, and since I don’t take money from my dad anymore, that’s all on me…
“Whoever brought you in has already taken care of your bill,” she informs me, but she leaves before I can question her further.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, because that has to mean the hottiedidexist.
His suit was tailored. He had money. Does that mean the hottie paid for me?
My pulse leaps in my throat.
What was his name? I feel like he told me.
But why would a stranger pay my hospital bill?
My phone vibrates and I jump to grab it, knowing it’ll be Charlie.
Charlie: Are you okay? Where are you?
Warily, I wonder why she hasn’t mentioned the drama at the diner.
Me: I am but I had an accident.
I can barely press send. This is bad enough. Might as well try to spin it.
Charlie: WHAT???
Me: Long story! I’m okay, but I need you to pick me up at Cedars. They won’t release me without you. I’m really sorry for the inconvenience :(
I watch as three dots appear, stop, and start again.
Charlie: On our way.
I stare at my phone for long enough that my vision turns blurry, but I can’t lose it now—they won’t discharge me. I’ve spent a lifetime and then some in and out of hospitals. I need to be at home yesterday, not just for my mental health, but I lucked out on the bill. I can’t afford another night here.
Once I can think straight, I’ll deal with Charlie and everything else. That’s if she doesn’t tear me a new one the minute she sets eyes on me.
With a sigh, I slowly stand. Although I’m slightly dizzy, all things considered, I’m doing okay. I walk over to the plastic bag on the chair that holds my clothes.
“Oh, my God.” I instantly gag as I open it. Tomato bisque and puke filter up to me like toxic waste.
Biting my lower lip, I sit on the arm of the chair and breathe, preparing to text Charlie with a request for a change of clothes. That’s when the nurse returns with my discharge papers.
Wanting to spare my friend the extra task, I ask, “Listen, if I give you a hundred dollars, can you get me a T-shirt from the hospital gift shop? Anything but what I was wearing will be fine.” I motion to the bag, still trying not to gag.
She hesitates as I frantically reach for my purse and pull out a hundred in cash. One thing great about waitressing—you always have cash.
“I…” She studies me compassionately, but it makes me feel like a charity case. “I’ll take my break now. What size?”
“Small, medium, I don’t care. I can’t wear what I had on. I think my skirt is fine, but if they have sweats…” I hand her the hundred then another hundred for the clothes.