I open my eyes to dim lighting and beeping monitors. The room is too big to be something from Urgent Care, and I can only assume my eaves-dropping ass has a concussion to go with the bruised rib. The bed is raised in a forty-five degree angle, making it somewhat easier to rest, and I can't really feel much aside from a slight pinching in my back and a throbbing head. The IV in my hand i must be pumping some good drugs and fluids to keep me hydrated because I feel pretty great compared to earlier.

My purse is nowhere in sight, and I freak out for a moment, thinking it was left behind at the UC. I've never actually gone straight to the hospital from another office, so I have no way to know if someone was kind enough to send my belongings or if someone filched my worn canvas bag and took what meager savings I have in my bank account. With my luck, I wouldn't be surprised if that happened, though it's not like I have a fortune or nude photos on my phone to sell to some lonely horn-dog on the internet. If anything, the thief would realize their loss and dump my bag in a trash bin somewhere.

There's a whiteboard on the wall with something scribbled in big, loopy green letters. I squint in the dark, trying to make out the words. My eyes gradually adjust, and it says, 'Hi, my name is Rose. I am your 3rd shift nurse.

Good to know. I've heard handwriting says a lot about who a person is, and there are dozens of studies on the subject, filled with a full personality analysis. With nothing better to do, I try to figure out as much as I can about Miss Rose. Is she a redhead like Kate Winslet in Titanic? Vibrant, vivacious, voluptuous? Instead of continuing my game that I made up, I wonder what else starts with the letter V and why I landed on that. There are tons of other adjectives to describe people. V...V...Vee...Vvvvvv...who decided that should be a sound in the alphabet, anyway?

And just like that, my mind stops working and I stare into space for a while. I feel like Dory in the original Finding Nemo movie where she tells the clownfish to "Relaaaaax." But it's kind of boring to just keep swimming on my own right now. I have nothing to do, and I'm not in the mood to watch TV unless Netflix is playing on my phone in the comfort of my bed.

As much as I don't like doing the 'people' thing, I press the call button. A nurse in pink scrubs with little dark baggies beneath her eyes from too much work on the zombie shift walks into the room. Covering her face is an animal mask with sheep sleeping next to lions.

I immediately decide I like her. I could imagine her as one of those grannies who feeds the hungry, makes little animal toys for kids, and nurtures the whole world. Her walk is perky, and her smile within her eyes is beautiful because she legit looks happy.

She flips on the light and approaches my bed, checking my vitals as she speaks. "Hi, Kelly, I'm Rose. How are you feeling? You took a pretty nasty tumble there at the Urgent Care center."

Drugs flowing faster than fish downstream in my veins, I consider this. I roll my shoulders and wiggle to the left before moving to the right. That spot in my back shifts again and pinches the muscle like it's stuck, and I can't help but think I didn't tear something. Not only that, but I feel stiff and noodley. My rib cage feels like a herd of wildebeests trampled it, and my limbs refuse to work.

I puff my cheeks out like a blowfish and release a slow breath. "I dunno," I slur. "I went in for..." I pause, trying to recall what I did this time. My brain seems to be driving in the slow lane tonight. Then, a little lightbulb shines above my head. "I hurt myself."

Rose giggles. "Well, that's generally why one goes to an urgent care center. Most people don't wake up saying, 'I feel good today. I think I'm gonna waste my money on an overpriced visit to the doctor.'"

I laugh out loud even though it hurts. She's got a sense of humor for someone half awake in the dead of the night. When my back pops back into place, I hiss and wait for the sharp pain to subside. Once certain I can speak without screaming, I say, "I think I tore the intercostal muscle in my rib. There's no bruising, and it hurts like a bitch to move."

Rose types something into the laptop on her cart. I can tell by the furrow in her brow she seems distressed by what she's about to say. It's the first time her smile has left her eyes, making me feel like I have six months left to live. I never thought it was possible for someone to steal the world's light when they frown, but this woman manages it. "Kelly, your doctor will go over the extent of your injuries in the morning, but you didn't tear a muscle."

Crap. I shouldn't be surprised, but I was really hoping for a break this time—just not...in the literal sense. "Let me guess: fracture?"

"And a moderate concussion."

Great... There isn't much I can do, except relax and kiss my chances at finding a job goodbye. No matter how hard I try, the universe craps on me and reminds me of my crummy luck. It's not fair, but when has life ever been good to me? And I've always been a half-glass-full kind of girl, but with everything going on, I can't see silver linings in any of the clouds.

Tears slide down my cheeks before I can stop myself, and Rose squeezes my hand. "I'm sorry, Kelly, but I promise everything is going to be okay. I've been through Crohn's Disease, diabetes, and a gallbladder removal. My husband left me for a younger woman, and I barely hear from my kids. I could be crying over the state of my life, and sometimes I do, but then I tell myself I'm blessed to be alive."

I wish I had that kind of faith, but right now, I'm exhausted—physically and mentally. I have no boyfriend, no job, and almost no friends. I have no clue what I want or what to do with myself.

My thoughts are depressing, and I want to sleep. If I wake up tomorrow, I might feel better. This could be one of my awful mood swings that keep me in bed for several days as I cry over nothing.

Good as rest sounds though, I remember my earlier dilemma—the reason I called for her. "Ms. Rose?"

"Yes, my dear?"

When I attempt to straighten my back, my rib pinches, and I lean back with a gasp. Once the ebbing stops, I try again. "Did anyone bring my purse? I need to call my dad and let him know I'm alive."

Rose nods and walks around the bed, reaching into a cabinet. Holding my purse, she sets it beside me as she says, "Doctor Cole brought it about an hour ago. Someone forgot to send it with you, and he didn't want you to worry."

Aww. Since when does a stranger care about little ole' me? Blake wasn't responsible for my things; he could have left my bag at the front desk but chose instead to deliver it himself. "That was nice of him," I murmur.

Rose winks with a knowing smile, and her eyes crinkle around the corners as if she's letting me in on a special secret. "Doctor Cole did his residency here. All the girls chased that boy, causing more gossip and drama than my soaps in the eighties. He enjoys the attention, but he's a sweetheart."

"What does this have to do with anything?" I blurt before I can stop myself. Let the nice old lady talk, you dummy! This might be the only conversation she has tonight.

A fond smile crosses her lips, and her eyes glimmer with affection. "Oh, I'm an old grandmother talkin' about nothing. Blake is like a son to me, and I want to see him settle down with someone nice. Guy has the biggest heart, volunteering at homeless shelters and bringing strangers their purse back, but he can't get his head out of his butt and stop playing around."

Good to know, but not my business or problem. A man like Blake dated glamorous women with exotic names like Katara or Fleurette. His bimbo groupies would be filled with girls like Candy or Apple. And if he really wanted to branch out, he'd date a woman named Twinkle or Rain. Men like Blake did not date girls like me in beat up sneakers and the most embarrassing name of all time.

Besides, while he might get away with dating a coworker, he definitely couldn't say the same for a patient. The medical board would sack him in a heartbeat.

Rose is a sentimental woman craving conversation though, so I let her speak without paying any kind to the beautiful man in royal blue scrubs with eyes to match. The sooner I erase him from my mind, the better.

"Oh," is all I say, wondering if it would be rude to change the subject. I don't know how to be subtle though, so I yawn and tell her, "I'm pretty tired, but thank you for bringing me my purse."

"Of course, hon. Press the call button if you need anything else. I'll be here until 7:00 AM."

Damn, that's a long night, but she's probably used to it. When I become old enough to joke about my youth, I want to be in bed by 8:00 PM, reading a good book. I don't want to push my body to crazy extremes, work past the age of expiration, and still not be able to draw a pension. I can't say it's realistic, but it's a goal.

I open my phone long enough to send a text to my dad to tell him I exist before turning it off and placing it under my pillow. Then I shove my purse under my blanket because I don't feel like getting up, and it really would suck if someone came into my room and stole it. Too tired to keep my eyes open any longer, I drift back to sleep.

The next time I open my eyes, my dad is sleeping in an awkward angle on the couch, and my body-size stuffed giraffe is in the bed beside me. As embarrassing as it is to have my giant plushie with me in the hospital, I'm touched he remembered. This poor giraffe, affectionately dubbed Gerry, has been squished, smothered, kicked onto the floor in the middle of the night, and run through the wash a million times until he's soft and worn like a favorite pair of jeans.

The sun filters through the blinds, shining against tiny dust motes lazily drifting in the air. There are no garbage trucks outside to startle me out of my sleep, and a peace settles over me like a security blanket. For a moment, my life isn't falling apart at the seams, and it's the best feeling in the world.

I carefully pull my purse from its hiding place and take my phone out. The battery is at twenty percent and I don't have a charger, but it's got enough power for me to check my notifications. Not that anyone messages me on Facebook or Instagram, but I can check my Wattpad account for announcements from my writing family. They're the people who matter, and I enjoy the company of people who understand what it's like to be socially awkward or insecure.

Unfortunately, my notifications are a little quiet today, leaving me very little to respond to, but perhaps I can work on some fanfiction when I get home. It's been awhile since I've posted anything, and I live for the comments. It's like crack, seeing them pop up in real time and live-stalking them as they come in, but it takes my mind away from everything else.

I'm somewhere between states of consciousness, waking up every few minutes from back pain as the broken rib moves out of place, and it's during a moment of wakefulness that my door opens and someone tiptoes inside. I adjust the bed so I can see who it is, and I'm surprised to find Blake in a set of scrubs. His eyes widen, and I can't help but wonder what his expression looks like beneath his mask.

Is he as surprised as I am because he was caught red-handed? Is he second-guessing being here? I know he's not thinking about what Rose talked about last night. We don't know each other from Adam and Eve, so why is he here when he's already returned my purse?

I watch him, suddenly self conscious about not wearing a mask because without makeup, you can connect the dots with my freckles, and also, I'm wondering how hideous the rat's nest is atop my head. Now I wish I'd stowed a brush in my purse even though I remind myself for the millionth time that Doctor Cole is strictly off-limits.

He stands rooted to the spot, keeping his arms at his side. Arms bare, my suspicions about tattoos are confirmed—it's nothing elaborate like a sleeve, but there is definitely something nautical on his forearm. I can't tell if it's a compass or the North Star, but I'm intrigued.

He pulls himself together and offers a small wave. "Hi, Kelly. How are you feeling today?"

I can't help the grin or the raised eyebrow when I respond. Compared to yesterday, his inflection is soft and nervous, lacking the confidence he displayed in the hallway when he told off that bimbo. "Oh, you know, my rib is still broken and my head hurts, no big deal."

And damn it, I can't tell if he's smirking or grimacing behind that stupid mask of his. I make a mental note to Google eye language later even though I have the attention span of a fruit fly and will forget this the moment he leaves. His eyes are almost closed and his cheekbones lift through the fabric cover, so it's hard to say, and I still have yet to see what's beyond the mask. Then he speaks, and his tone rises a third of an octave. "Well, I can't take credit for the broken rib, but you have my apology on behalf of the poor technician who gave you that bump on the head. I came by to check on you and let you know the facility will pay for your visit here."

Woah, for real? My mouth parts like a gaping fish and my eyebrows rise to the ceiling. "Wow. That's...generous." Then again, he's probably hoping I don't file a lawsuit. I could win so much money, but the question is whether I should. Too many people abuse the judicial system, claiming way more in damages than they need. On one hand, there should be accountability, but do they really need that much money? I feel like they're being enabled to continue doing it, like those people who get into car accidents on purpose, just to make easy money from insurance. There's definitely a special place in Hell for people like that, but if I sue for damages, I suppose I might as well join them.

His eyes give nothing away, and he continues. "So, I spoke to the doctor last night after we rushed you here. Even with your fall at the Urgent Care, you have a non-displaced fracture on the seventh rib as well as a concussion. Your physician will discuss it with you when he comes in as well as treatment options, but you should be up and about in four to six weeks as long as you take it easy and don't chase any more balls of runaway yarn."

I giggle before grabbing my rib. At least he didn't catch me eavesdropping and make a joke about that. "I'll see you again when I choke on a noodle."

Blake pulls up a plastic chair and glances at Dad, who's softly snoring with his mouth wide open and his head leaned back against the arm of the couch in an awkward angle. His shoulders bob up and down as I scrunch my face. I hope I don't look like that when I sleep or I'm in a lot of trouble when I actually come acquire a boyfriend. When it's clear my dad isn't waking up, Blake sits and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You know, noodles are actually among twelve foods you're most likely to choke on."

"I guess that means I just cut my life expectancy in half," I deadpan. "You ever choke on a noodle? I swallowed my loose tooth in my pancake once when I was six."

Why did I say that out loud? Blake dips his head down and his body shakes again, but I can't get mad because that was my fault for admitting something so stupid. When he looks up, his eyes crinkle around the sides and his tone is breathless. "Are you always so accident prone?"

I shrug. He might as well know now since that's the closest Urgent Care to my house. It's not like he won't be seeing me in three to six months anyway, so I start ticking off random accidents on my fingers. "Let's see... I've caught my shoelaces in my bike gears, cut my finger on a grater, ripping my pants at work all the way down doing nothing even though I have a flatt butt, and flipped over my bike head-first over a rock when I hit the breaks too fast."

That last one had happened when I was eighteen, on my way to a job interview. I saw a rock on the sidewalk and hit the breaks too hard, sending me flying over the bike and rolling into the grass. A man pulled over in his ridiculously expensive car and jumped out to ask if I was okay, and instead of milking it like I should have done, I sprang to my feet like a whack-a-mole and told him I was good. I didn't even get his number.

"It sounds like you need your own plastic bubble," he teased.

"I'll probably find a way to break myself on that too," I say with a grin.

Blake chuckles as he stands up. "I think it's time to find whoever took your voodoo doll and ask for it back."

I laugh so hard, my rib sends shooting pain into my back, but I do like Blake's sense of humor. It's too bad he was my doctor, doesn't commit, and is way out of my league, because I feel like he's someone I'd get along with. Given what Rose told me and how he spoke to the receptionist at the hospital, I imagine he wants someone more refined and a little less hazardous.

With a glance at my dad, Blake says, "Wow, I'm surprised he didn't wake up."

"Elephants could stampede through the house, and he'd sleep through it." Not to mention, he'd slept through a fire Mom had started once when she put the clothes in the dryer and left for work. Had I not been inside the house when it happened, my dad wouldn't be here today. I guess I know where I inherited my lack of survival instincts from.

He nods awkwardly, clapping his hands together once and rocking back and forth on his feet. "Well...I should probably get going. I was on my way to work. Take care, Kelly."

It wasn't like he was dressed in scrubs for early Halloween. And he definitely wasn't here for my company. He was here for damage control and to assuage whatever guilt he felt from what happened at the urgent care, and that was that.

I wave goodbye and watch him leave, telling myself this is for the best anyway. We couldn't be further apart if another solar system separated us.