Page 78 of The Do-Over Girl

Rhonda turns and looks at Kali, who stands up straighter. Kali not only outshines Rhonda by a universe of stars, but she knows it.

“You’re with her now?” Rhonda sounds incredulous.

“Yes,” Kali answers for me and proves it by climbing into the back of the ambulance.

“We’re going to close the doors now, ma’am,” one of the EMTs tells Rhonda. He’s gentler about it than I would be.

“Fine,” she says, “but don’t come crawling back to me when you find you regret your… choices someday—” I’m sure she means to make a dramatic exit, but it’s lost because the door shuts, and me, Kali, and the EMT are left in blessed silence.

Until the ambulance’s siren goes on. Then we waste no time getting to the hospital, which, thank fuck, is only a fifteen-minute ride because I’m anxious to get this all over with.

In the emergency room, I get VIP treatment, and they call in their top orthopedic specialist.

The doctor says I’ll need another surgery to repair the rotator cuff, and I’m not surprised.

“Luckily for you, the break in your arm is a relatively mild fracture and doesn’t require surgery. The location rules out the necessity of a cast.”

“Thanks, doc. Nothing personal, but I’ll talk to my specialist in Boston who did my last surgery for that.”

“Of course. I’d do the same thing if I were you. I wouldn’t put it off for more than a day or two. In the meantime, let me give you a shot for the pain and a sling to demobilize the arm. Then you can go.”

When the doctor leaves, replaced by a team of nurses to prep for the shot, Kali says, “That’s it?”

I nod. “Don’t worry, once I see my specialist for the surgery, the real pain begins.”

“What do you mean?”

I don’t want to tell her, but she guesses.

“You’re worried about the long-term prognosis—about the use of your arm.” She puts a hand under my chin, standing over me where I sit on the examining room table, and stares into my eyes like an iron woman, the kind of woman who went from a small town in Maine to New York City and conquered her world, becoming one of the most successful in the PR business. I know all about it because I watched her from afar, heard things, and even, occasionally—once in a blue moon, I swear—I googled her.

“You will be fine no matter what, Nash Lewis. And do you want to know how I know? Because you are one of the most willful, strong-minded, hard-working individuals I’ve ever known. You conquered the hockey world, and now you’ll conquer your damn shoulder.”

One of the nurses smiles. “If she’s in your corner, you’ll do fine.”

I pull her in for a kiss, and I don’t care how inappropriate it is, but it’s a short-lived one because the doctor returns. With a big fucking needle. Of course.

Kali gasps but then schools herself and steps away.

“You can wait outside,” the doctor says.

“No,” I say with unarguable finality.

When they wheel me outside because they insist on their crazy rules, I jump from the fucking chair to defy them. Archie arranged for Dylan and Mia to give us a ride back to the inn.

They all think I’m going to my room to bed for the night, to rest as the doc suggested—okay, he more than suggested it. But he didn’t know we were at the last step before the finish line in our race to save Andrews Point Academy.

And there’s no fucking way I’m going to miss the gala where the board of trustees will be handed the check—the giant fake one—from the fund to save the school and the town in reality.

When we arrive, I tell Kali I’m only here to change my clothes. She protests, but I put a stop to that as we stand on the front walk, slipping my good hand around the back of her head and hauling her in for a quick, powerful kiss.

“Dylan, I need you to stay and help me dress,” I say over my shoulder as the kid looks on with a smirk. Mia has one of those knowing smiles. She’s a wise young lady, well beyond her years.

“Yes, sir.”

I see the protest forming on Kali’s lips, and then it fades, and she realizes she can’t insist on taking my clothes off, on being there while I shower, and then dressing me. Even if it’s every student’s assumption that there’s hanky-panky between us, to steal Mrs. P’s term, we can’t shove it in their faces. There’s a professional line.

I whisper to her, “Your turn will come later.”