Jay Walking (4 page)

I promise her I'll keep my walk short. She needs to do some errands in the early afternoon and I want to be sure to eat a healthy lunch and cuddle some more with James before his nap. She tells me not to rush, but I want to get back home to James. I heard forming a habit takes twenty-one days and I hope that's true, because if in twenty-one days I still dread my walks, I'll lose my weight-loss battle.
 

I step out into the now warmer air and stretch my legs a bit first. I read online about the importance of making sure my muscles are loose and warm before beginning a workout. I'm still not convinced walking is a workout, but the more I do it, I figure I'll get better. I'll walk farther and faster and burn more calories. Eventually, I'll be a runner. Of course, I probably will fall flat on my ass six out of seven days I run, but I'll try anyway.
 

With Taylor Swift singing in my ear to "Shake It Off", I start down the driveway, pumping my legs and my arms at the same time. I keep having to remind myself to inhale and exhale, which I also read about online. Exercising isn't enough. According to everything I read, a proper workout needs a certain breathing pattern as well. If I don't follow what I read online, I don't know if my results will be compromised, but I don't want to take the chance. So, just as the Big Bad Wolf does, I huff and I puff but instead of blowing on a house, I blow out into the air. I find as Taylor's songs pick up the pace, I do as well. Fast-paced music will be a requirement with every single walk.
 

I strut along for about fifteen minutes, only checking my app one time to see how far I've gone. A mile into my workout, I wish I brought a drink. I stop off at the gas station to pick up a bottled water. This time I brought cash. I don't expect to run into Jay, but on the sheer chance I do, I don't want him to think I can't afford water. I pay for the water and sit on a retaining wall outside. After downing the bottle, something grazes my arm. Mosquitos already? I swat at the pest, but not before realizing the insect on my arm is more than a mosquito. The bee moves from my arm to my hand, where I swat at him again.
 

April seems too soon for these bugs. Every year, the first time for everything always seems to come earlier and earlier. The first snow, the first thirty-two degree day as well as the first day over sixty. Or when I start noticing more kids on the street and realize school is dismissed for the summer. I never give much thought to the first time a bee makes its presence known in the environment after disappearing for the winter. Apparently, it's April.

My skin begins to itch as pain radiates through my hand, like someone stabbed me with a needle. I go to scratch the area, and my hand is turning red, the spot getting larger by the second. I hold my breath even though every ounce of me wants to scream a choice four letter word at the top of my lungs. I blow out the air when I start seeing double. Shit. I need to get the stinger out, which is sticking straight out of my hand. The faster I act the better because I'm close to hyperventilating and realizing I must be allergic to bees.

•••

Never in my life have I experienced an allergic reaction. I pick up the pace since I'm only a few blocks from the hospital. My ear buds fall out of place and hang over my jacket, and my hand increases in warmth. I continue to swallow because I saw
My Girl
one too many times and know a simple little bee can make my throat swell up and I can die. I can't leave James without a mother. He already lacks a father. Crap. What the hell am I going to do? As I walk faster, I pull up my text messages and send a quick text to my mom with my able hand (thankfully it's not the right hand, which I text with), telling her a bee stung me and I'm getting it checked out. She replies with a simple okay, and I wonder why the hell she doesn't freak out like I am.

My head is throbbing now and the room is spinning. Or is it? Maybe it's me. Man, I always exaggerate and I'm aware of that, and this probably is an overreaction, but, what if this one time, it's not? People often make fun of my hypochondriac reactions to things, but they'll be sorry the one day I'm right. What if the cut on my finger really does turn into a staph infection and I die? What if one day the headache really is a tumor, or my chest pain isn't from too much coffee, but a full-fledged heart attack? I glance at my reddening hand one more time as I race into the main entrance of the hospital. All I can think is, "What if today is the day I'm murdered by a bee?" A damn, vicious bee.

A short haired lady with too much makeup and dark glasses greets me. "Good afternoon, Miss, what brings you here today?"

I shove my hand onto the counter. "This. I think I'm having an allergic reaction to a bee sting." I pull back. "It hurts. So bad."

She doesn't bother to glance at my Hulk-sized hand and instead continues typing on her keyboard.

"Name."

No please, or not even in the form of a question. Just a statement. "Chelsea Wyatt."

She types for a minute, and it seems like ages before she speaks again. "Date of birth."

I give her the information, every second the pain worsening, and my panic increasing.

More typing. The longer she takes the more likely I am to lose my hand, or my life. "Insurance card, please."

I reach for my wallet and freeze. Dammit! I only put cash in a tiny slim wallet. I didn't want to lug around my whole purse and I never thought to put my insurance card in with my stuff. You bet I will from now on.
If
I live. "Um, I don't have it."

"I'll need that to process you, or you'll need to pay now for services."

"What? I'm having an allergic reaction, lady! I could die here! And you aren't going to allow me to be treated because I don't have my insurance card?" I don't like to argue with people, but I'm staring death in the face. "I don't have my insurance card
or
a credit card."

She finally stops typing, folds her arms in front of her, and says, "Look, my job isn't to worry about that. I'm here to check you in, make sure you're covered by insurance, or can pay. Otherwise, I can't help you."

I scratch my wrist as the swelling moves farther up my hand. I wonder how she'll feel when my cartoon-sized hand smacks her across the face. "I need to speak with your manager." My whole body shakes, and I'm uncertain if I'm about to break into a seizure, or if I'm pumped with so much adrenaline I can't control my body.

"Chelsea, right?"
 

I turn and Jay is standing a few feet away, draped in a white coat.
Doctor
Jay? He's a physician? "Yes, Chelsea. Hi, Jay. I, um, was stung by a bee and I think I'm having a reaction. This woman won't let me see anyone because I forgot my insurance card."

"Eleanor, we don't turn anyone away."

"But Dr. Stafford-"

"Chelsea, please give Eleanor the name of your insurance company and the name of your place of employment. You can come back with me, and while I'm checking you out, she can give them a call and get this all straightened out."

Did he just say he's going to check me out? Okay, head, out of the gutter, please. He means my hand, not me, personally. As the itching worsens and my hand throbs with pain, I quickly give Eleanor my information and follow Dr. Jay Stafford in his smoking hot, white doctor's jacket into Exam Room Five.

•••

"How long ago did this happen?" Jay asks me as he opens the cabinet. I'm not sure if I should call him Jay or Dr. Stafford. What's the appropriate protocol?

"Maybe twenty minutes. It took me about ten to get here and another five to sort through the whole thing with the front desk, and now I'm here."

Jay smiles (I'll go with Jay), and a laugh follows. "Let's check you out."

He sits on a chair and rolls over to me. I rest uncomfortably on the exam bed, the paper crinkling beneath me. He reaches for my hand and I reach it out towards him.

"Chelsea?"

I stare at him, his perfect face, his tiny nose, the little dimple in his cheek. "Yes?" I wonder what he's thinking.
 

"I need the injured hand."

"Oh!" Shit.
Idiot!
I make a fool of myself way too often. First I fall down in front of him, and now I give him the hand that's not even swollen. I switch out my hands.

His fingers are warm against my hand as he shimmies it to the left and right investigating the swelling closer up. Vanilla with a hint of mint and cedar wood bounce off his skin into my nose and I want to bury my face in his neck. The tip of his finger grazes the swollen area, and it doesn't hurt as much as before.
 

"Hang on one second." He grabs a bottle from a cabinet and squeezes some lotion into his hand. He massages it over the wound and I shiver from the cool touch. Or maybe it's the fact this sexy man is touching me. Who knows? And who really cares.
He's touching me
. "This is calamine lotion. You can get it at your local pharmacy. Or even at Walmart."

Do I want to admit I shop at Walmart? He's a doctor. Chances are he lives in some fancy condo downtown and probably uses a grocery delivery service.
 

"Anyway, this isn't an allergic reaction."

"It's not?"

He shakes his head and smiles. "If you
were
having an allergic reaction, your entire arm would be swelled up by now." He takes my hand again and lifts up my arm. "Looks pretty normal to me."
 

I set my hands on the paper on the exam table. "I'm a little embarrassed by this. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"Don't be embarrassed, Chelsea. Good thinking brought you here. You never can be too sure in case you
are
having a reaction. Allergic reactions can be deadly if not treated immediately."

"That's what I thought and why I wanted to come in right away." Good. Score a point for me. I'm not dumb for overreacting.

"Well, that was quick thinking on your part, and I'm glad you came in."

"You are?"
He's so dreamy
, I'm thinking as my eyes glass over and I'm locked in a stare.

"Yes, I am. I was actually hoping to run into you again."

I gulp so loud the nurse in the next room can probably hear me. "Oh?"

"I know you're not a runner, but I thought we could take a walk together sometime? Who knows, you may decide to start running."

Is Jay asking me out? Is taking a walk considered a date? The last person I "dated" was Daniel and that lasted too long and resulted in the birth of my baby boy. Before Daniel, I had only been on one or two dates. He said 'sometime' so he can mean a week or a month or six months into the future. Chances are he's only being nice anyway.
 

"So what do you say?"

"About what?" I don't even blink as I gaze into his eyes.
 

Jay scratches the side of his head. "About what I asked you thirty seconds ago. Did you want to take a walk together sometime?"

"Oh! Yes, sorry. I was daydreaming."
About
you
, I add in my head. I remember to scope out his finger this time and don't see a ring.
 

"Great. I don't work Saturday. Do you want to go before lunch and after we could stop off somewhere for a bite to eat?"

I'm about to hyperventilate. Saturday already? That seems much too soon! Am I ready for this? What do I wear on a date like this? Something comfortable but not lazy looking. My entire body starts to shake with nerves and my stomach churns.
 

"Are you okay, Chelsea? Do you need me to get you a bucket? You're a little pale."

Oh shit, I can't throw up. If I throw up in his office, I'll make another crappy impression, and this one he won't think is so cute. I want to go out with him. I haven't met a decent guy in years. The last time I technically went out with a man happened at my last job, and the situation didn't go so well. I take a deep breath and send relaxing thoughts through my mind. "No, thanks. I'll be okay. Saturday sounds like a plan."

A date? With a hot doctor? I'm going to be more than okay.
 

After returning home and assuring my mom I'm okay (even though her text came off with little concern), I frantically pick up the phone while James naps and call Amber. She'll be excited about my forthcoming date and hopefully offer up some advice on what to wear, how to act, and what to talk about because, let's face it, I need the help.

"You thought you were dying?" Amber laughs. She keeps giggling until she's so loud I need to pull the phone away from my ear.

"That's not the point." I peel a sticker off a sheet full of baby boy selections. I'm working on an order that came in - twelve pages for a baby boy's first year. The customer wants the package next week, so I need to focus and finish as quickly as possible. Thankfully my hand is okay and I can work fine. "Amber, he asked me out! I'm seeing him Saturday!" Today is only Sunday, but Saturday seems both painstakingly far away and much too close at the same time.

"All that talk with Ryan and you didn't even lift a finger. He came to
you
, girl!"

I can't stand when Amber calls me girl, and she does this quite often. I remind myself she's a few years younger than me and sometimes says lame things. It's kind of like when I'm at the store and I overhear teenagers talking. Their attempts at trying to sound grown up only come off as silly. I don't think she realizes how odd some of her statements are, and instead considers her way of speaking hip. Now that I'm a mom and packed on my weight, being hip is the least of my concerns. A perfect day for me is hanging out with James while I relax in my lounge pants. Now, I'm going on a date - a DATE!

"I'm so nervous, Amber. I mean, what will we talk about? James is my life. There's not much else." I set the phone down and put her on speaker so I can start assembling the kit. The package asked for me to put together basic pages and leave room for her to add in the pictures herself. The sticker gives this page its final touch, and I can now get all twelve pages packed together to mail.

"Talk about James, then," Amber suggests the most obvious answer.