Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 11

STELLA

The man who walks through the door of my room in the ER is not Jack Piorra, childhood friend, smirking pain in my behind.

Nope, he is Doctor Piorra— complete with a white coat, a stethoscope, and clipboard.

He’s still a smirking pain in my behind.

“Did you really go get changed?” I say, gesturing to his clothes—scrubs and Crocs now, instead of the jeans and shirt he wore to drive me over here.

“Sure did,” he says with a twitch of his lips—one that clearly shocks the nurse, I might add. She’s standing by the sink, looking bored, but Jack’s almost-smile causes her to do a double take.

I bet he just storms around this place with a giant frown.

He doesn’t seem to notice the nurse, though. “If I’m stapling that cut”—he gestures to the side of my head—“I have to be official. ”

“Now hang on just one minute,” I say, my hand flying to where my hair is sticky and gross with drying blood. “Let’s talk about this rationally.” I clear my throat. “I don’t think staples will be necessary.”

His almost-grin vanishes, and in its place appears a brisk, no-nonsense expression. “It’s staples or stitches, Miss Partridge,” he says flatly. “I’d recommend staples.”

I swallow and try not to think about the logistics of a giant stapler driving metal into my skull. “I won’t insult your intelligence by asking for a second opinion?—”

“That means,” Jack cuts me off, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that you don’t get to offer an opinion, either.”

“Fine,” I say as something dies inside of me. “Staples is fine.”

Jack nods. “Stephanie,” he says to the nurse.

“Yes,” she says, and then she bustles out of the room—getting supplies, I guess.

“An ER doctor, huh?” I say under my breath once she’s gone.

“Yep,” he says, settling himself on a rolling stool and scooting to the side of the bed they’ve got me on. He places a gentle hand on my chin and tilts it away from him, so he can see the cut.

That stupid tree. I’ve got bruises and scrapes everywhere, but it was a branch I hit on the way down that did this damage.

“Three or four should do it,” he says, his fingers moving from my chin to my hair. “But good grief, Princess.” He lets his hand drop, shaking his head and looking at me with exasperation. “What am I going to do with you? You can’t go five minutes without an injury.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. I don’t mean for the words to escape—they just do.

Jack’s dark eyebrows twitch in surprise. “For what?” he says. “Cutting your head open?”

“No.” It’s a miserable whisper now; I’m too ashamed to hold his gaze, so I let my eyes drop to my hands in my lap. “For calling you a thief. For saying—that stuff. About how I expected you’d turn out, or whatever.” I swallow past the tangled knot of guilt and regret in my throat. “I shouldn’t have said those things.”

For several seconds, Jack doesn’t speak; when he does, there’s no anger in his voice. “You already apologized for that, Princess,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I say quickly. “I just—” I break off. “I still feel bad.” I force myself to look up, because there are some things you can’t be a coward about, and apologizing is one of them.

But something happens then, when my gaze clashes with his—a jolt of adrenaline, a spike of anxious excitement, spurred by the intensity in his dark eyes, the way they search my face so intently.

“Yeah, well,” he says slowly, shrugging. “Maybe you should feel bad. It was a mean thing to say.”

I nod as my heart somehow manages to sink and flutter at the same time.

What on earth is wrong with me?

“But,” he goes on, and now his gaze flickers with something I can’t identify, “I think after I put a few staples in your head, I might feel better.”

Little panic bubbles form in my gut, fizzing like a shaken soda. “So…about that.” I bite my lip. “How bad is it go ing to hurt?”

Jack snorts and pushes his rolling stool over to the sink, that soft look gone; he’s back to his normal self once more.

Good thing, too. I don’t know if I can handle soft looks and murmured words from him.

“Depends who you ask,” he says, standing up. “Since you have the pain tolerance of a jellyfish?—”

“I do,” I say, nodding vigorously—it makes my head pound, so I stop. “I can admit it. I have a horrible pain tolerance. So can you be gentle?” But it’s a stupid question; being gentle isn’t a thing with medical staples, which I realize when Jack shoots me a look that plainly says Get it together.

I sigh, straighten up, and resign myself to my fate.

“I’ve had little kids do better with this than you’re doing,” says Jack—excuse me, Doctor Piorra —fifteen minutes later as I squirm beneath the stapler he has pressed to the side of my head.

“I’m sorry,” I say through gritted teeth. “But you’re digging metal into my head. I think I’m allowed to be nervous.”

He snorts, leaning closer—close enough that I can see little details like the stitches on the hem of his sleeve. I can even smell the faint scent of antiseptic that emanates from him.

And it’s official; I do not like Doctor Jack Piorra. He’s my type to a tee: utterly confident, capable, a little snarky, and more handsome than he needs to be. And it’s only a short jump from Doctor Jack Piorra to plain old Jack—the last thing I need is to take a good hard look at my childhood friend and realize I like what I see .

Because I very much fear I might, and that way lies madness and heartbreak. Jack doesn’t like me; he’s tolerating me for a while.

“There’s nervous,” he says, pulling me out of my disconcerting thoughts, “and then there’s worked up.” One of his hands shifts gently in my hair, tilting my head to a better angle. “ You’re worked up.”

“I am not,” I say too quickly. “What does that even mean? I’m not worked up?—”

“It means your heart is beating too fast,” he cuts me off, using his hand to turn my head so our eyes meet. “And you’re jumpy. You feel like your body is full of electricity.” He raises one brow at me. “Accurate?”

I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

“No,” I manage to get out. “Not at all.”

Another little tug at the corner of his lips, and his eyes drop down. “Still have that twitching jaw when you lie, Princess.”

“Just put the staples in,” I say, “before I— ow!” A jolt of pain to my head, followed by two more in rapid succession. “Ouch— ow! ”

“There we go,” Jack says, wheeling the stool back and standing up. “All done.” He hands the staple gun to the nurse—Stephanie, I think her name was—and then peels his blue gloves off and tosses them into the trash can. Then he leans down and smirks at me.

“Just like with the little kids,” he says, his voice full of smug humor, “you have to distract the patient and then do it all at once.”

My gaze jumps to the nurse, whose eyes are probably wider than they’ve ever been in her life. She looks back and forth between Jack and me, and I swallow .

Jack seems to come to himself too, because his expression fades into something more neutral and businesslike.

“Give me a minute,” he says briskly, already turning on his heel. “And we can leave.”

“So,” the nurse says once Jack has left the room, her eyes still round. “How do you know Doctor Piorra?” She clears her throat. “I’ve never seen him in such a good mood before,” she adds, like it’s a secret and she doesn’t want to be overheard.

“We’re—” I begin, but I break off immediately, because what are we? Friends seems generous, even though we said that’s what we would be. But it would be weird to say something like frenemies. “We knew each other growing up,” I finally say. “That’s all.”

“Ah,” she says, glancing over her shoulder and nodding. She’s still a little skittish. “I see.”

“Thanks for your help today,” I say, and she nods again.

“Of course,” she says.

I clear my throat and try to sound casual. “So how long has Jack—I mean, how long has Doctor Piorra worked here?” No harm in doing some recon.

“Oh, a while,” she says as she bustles around the room, collecting supplies and wiping things down. “He did his residency here.”

This means nothing to me, because I do not know how med school and doctor training work, but I nod anyway.

“The patients love him, especially the kids,” she goes on. “He—” But she breaks off when Jack sticks his head back in the room.

“Stephanie,” he says, his voice sharp. “Don’t gossip about the doctors, please.”

“Sorry, Doctor Piorra,” she says quickly, giving him a little bob of her head. Then she hurries out of the room, past Jack, who steps inside.

“You scared her,” I say, shooting him a disapproving frown.

“Good,” he says with a snort. “She shouldn’t be talking about the doctors to the patients.” He looks me over, then jerks his chin toward the door. “Ready?”

“Yes,” I say. I’m more than ready. I can feel the medical bills piling up with every second I stay here, and I’m currently very uninsured. “Let’s go.”

Jack twirls his keys around his finger, and I smile faintly; it’s something he used to do in high school, too.

“Here are the rules,” he says once I’ve checked out and we’ve left the building. “Keep the cut dry for forty-eight hours. No showers, in other words, and don’t submerge it in water. After the forty-eight are past you can shower, but still don’t submerge it. Pat it dry. Take ibuprofen if you have a headache, and come back here in ten days to get the staples removed.”

I nod gently, following his long stride to the car; he reaches it before me and opens my door. He doesn’t look chivalrous or gentlemanly as he waits for me to get in, though—just impatient.

And yet his hand hovers over my head as I slide in, making sure I don’t hit it.

How did I never notice what a natural caretaker he is? Was he like this even when we were kids?

Since the hospital is in Boulder, we have to drive all the way back to Lucky together. But the car is silent, save for the radio playing low in the background. There’s something vaguely uncomfortable about it, but I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet, only speaking when we’re finally back in Lucky.

“My car is still at Maude’s,” I say.

“We’ll get it tomorrow,” Jack says in a tone that allows for no argument. “Go home and go to bed.”

Honestly, I’m grateful; my head is pounding and I’m tired. So I nod my assent and turn to look back out the window, watching the fat flakes of snow whiz past us. Strings of holiday lights line Main, cheerful red banners stretched over the road; the town is ready for Christmas.

I’ve never felt less holly jolly. And yet…the world moves on. Even when time slows for me, the rest of the world keeps going. There’s something reassuring about it—knowing that my struggles aren’t the center of the universe, knowing that time marches on regardless of what’s happening to any one person.

It makes me hopeful that I can rejoin that swift-moving stream again. I’m just…not sure how.

Yeah, I decide as we pass the large inflatable Christmas tree in the town square. I never learned how to fail, and it’s coming back to bite me.

But how does one learn how to fail?

I sigh and abandon these mixed-up thoughts—for now, at least. My head is too sore.

When Jack pulls up in front of my parents’ house, he doesn’t say anything.

“Thanks, Jack,” I say quietly.

“That’s Doctor Piorra to you,” he says.

I almost smile. “Thanks, Doc.”

He gives a sharp jerk of his head, which I take to mean You’re welcome; I open the door without saying anything else. Mrs. Driggs across the street is shuffling down her driveway dragging trash cans behind her, but other than that, the world is silent here, which I appreciate.

“Mrs. Driggs,” I call, waving to Jack and then shutting the car door. I hurry across the street to her. “Here, let me take those.” The trash cans probably weigh as much as she does. She’s a little bird lady, small enough to blown over by a stiff wind.

“Oh, thank you,” she says with a frustrated sigh. “I used to be strong and hardy, you know.”

A little smile flits over my lips. “I know. I remember you doing yard work. I helped water your flowers.”

“You did, didn’t you?” she says, chuckling now.

I drag the trash cans the rest of the way to the curb and then turn to her. “I missed the last book club, but I’d like to come next time. Let me know.” Because I keep resisting the path life has brought me on, and it’s not doing a dang thing. I may as well make my peace with it.

I failed. I’m a failure. I messed up, did something stupid, and it cost me my dream job.

Into my head pops a snippet of the Serenity Prayer I heard when I accidentally crashed that AA meeting: Serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

That’s what it said, right?

“I’ll let you know,” Mrs. Driggs says with a nod, pulling me out of my ponderings. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and another smile blooms, more genuine this time. “Don’t drag those things around by yourself. I can help any time I’m home.”

“I might just take you up on that,” she says. She waves over her shoulder and begins her hobble up the driveway, and I turn to head back to my little basement unit.

It’s been a long day, and I will sleep very well.

I startle with surprise, though, when I see that Jack is still here, his car still idling on the street in front of my parents’ house. It’s just as well; I hurry over to the driver’s window and knock on it.

“What?” he says when he rolls it down.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about getting my car,” I say. “Are you working?”

“Yes,” he says, his hands drumming on the steering wheel. He doesn’t even look at me; his gaze stays straight ahead. “But we’ll figure something out.”

I nod. “That’s fine. Thanks.” Then another thing pops into my head. “Oh—and the reunion.”

“What about it?” he says. “Going to try to back out?”

“No,” I say, although I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t crossed my mind. “But I’m not going to be showered, and my hair is going to be gross. Are you sure that’s the kind of fake girlfriend you want?”

“You can bathe,” he says. “Just don’t get your head wet. The reunion isn’t until after your shower ban anyway.” He finally turns to look at me; I can see his eyes flitting over me in the yellow light of the street lamps. “But I don’t really care what you look like. I just need someone to be there.”

“If you’re sure…” I say, letting my voice trail off. Maybe he’ll sense my hesitance and let me off the hook.

But he narrows his eyes at me. “I’m sure,” he says in a soft, even voice. “Now go inside and go to bed. Stop doing things like helping little old ladies with their trash cans.” For some reason he looks irritated when he says this, like me helping Mrs. Driggs has offended him personally.

I frown. “It took me two seconds, and she needed help. Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not. I just—” He breaks off, sighing. “Never mind. Go inside, Princess.”

“Why do you call me that?” The words pop out without permission.

His body stills. “So many reasons,” he says, turning his gaze back to the road ahead. And before I can ask any more questions, he’s got his foot on the gas, the car inching forward. I take a few steps back, and then he’s gone, no sign of him left but tire tracks in the snow.