Instead of squirming in his boots as I hoped he would, Garth slid a little closer to Jesse and batted his eyes at him. “Why? You jealous, Sterling-Walker? Can’t take a little healthy competition?”
“Whatever that is”—I motioned at Garth about to drool while still batting his eyes at Jesse, who was not-so-subtly edging away—“unlike Paleo, there is nothing healthy about it.”
“I thought you didn’t know what Paleo was.” Garth fired off one especially salacious wink at Jesse before going out of hots-for-Jesse character and back into hots-for-Josie character.
“I live in Seattle, where so many carrots and sweet potatoes are consumed, people walk down crowded, dreary streets looking like orange-faced oompa loompas. Of course I know what Paleo is.” Not that I followed it, because this girl might be able to give up most kinds of meat, but do not ask me to drop sugar. Wasn’t happening. “What I want to know is how you know what Paleo is.”
Garth shifted in place. Of course talking about some diet would make him uncomfortable when acting like he was nursing a semi for his best friend wouldn’t. “I don’t know. I probably read about it in some magazine in some doctor’s office. I spent enough time waiting in those aptly named ‘waiting’ rooms to become an expert in which haircuts are best for a person’s face shape, how to pick the right red lipstick for your skin tone, and what little black dress is best for your body type . . . and other useless shit like that.”
I leaned in, scrutinizing his lips or, more accurately, what was sparkling on his lips. “I don’t know about the red lipstick thing, but you really nailed the right shade of pink lip gloss. Nailed. It.”
The back of Garth’s hand was wiping and patting his lips so quickly, I’d have thought I’d just told him they were on fire. “That’s Josie’s lip shit. Not mine.”
“Sure, it isn’t, Brokeback. Sure, it isn’t.”
Jesse exhaled and shook his head—standard procedure for when Garth and I got into it like this.
Garth slid in my direction, pinning me to the wall with his unblinking stare. “You can call me Brokeback all you want. I’ll smile and take it while calling you little Ms. Pregnant-and-Barefoot Suzi Homemaker.”
“Ouch,” I said, reaching for the place where the sharp pain in my side was stabbing me.
“‘Ouch’ is right. You’re not the only one who can break out the name calling, Sterling-Walker.” Garth was grinning in victory, not getting it, but the lightness fading from Jesse’s face gave away that he had.
Another stab hit me, doubling me over. “Ouch.” This time I sounded more like I’d just taken a wrecking ball to the gut. I would have fallen to my knees if Jesse hadn’t swooped in and saved me, only further securing his spot in the Hero Hall of Fame.
Only when Jesse had to save me from face-planting did Garth get it. “Holy shit, I’m an asshole.” He rushed toward us, his arms moving like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how. “What can I do?”
“Go get my truck!” Jesse hollered, gathering me into his arms while I attempted to grit my teeth and not cry out when another stab attacked me.
“Shouldn’t we call 9-1-1 or something?” Garth sounded about as flustered as I’d ever heard him as he started to clear a path through the crowd. Thankfully we were close to one of the exits, so it wouldn’t take long to get outside.
“No paramedic can get here then to the emergency room quicker than I can. I know every way to get to the hospital from here, and the quickest way based on the time of day. Or night,” Jesse added as he rushed through the barn.
“That relict of a truck of yours belongs in a museum, Jess, not speeding down a maze of dirt roads toward a hospital thirty minutes away when your wife looks like she’s dying.” Garth grimaced when Jesse and I threw him looks ranging from irritated to irate. “Figuratively speaking, of course.” He shoved a couple of guys out of the way, shaking his head. “I’m not only an asshole—I’m an insensitive one too.”
“You can’t have one without the other.” I had to concentrate on taking a breath before I could add anything else. “Don’t feel too bad.”
As Jesse carried me through the big barn doors, he glanced at Garth, who was keeping pace with us. “Can you tell my parents what happened and where we’re going? They’ll worry when they realize we’re gone.”
Garth nodded as he pulled keys from his pocket. “I’ll call and let them know once we’re at the hospital.”
“What are you talking about?” Jesse’s pace picked up when he took another look at my face . . . and I was trying to disguise how much pain I was in.
“I’m driving you guys. That’s what I’m talking about.” Garth’s sleek black truck roared to a start when he punched a button on the key, and unlike Old Bessie, it was right in front of us.
“No. It’s your engagement party. I can’t let you leave it to chauffeur us to the hospital.” Where Jesse’s words said he wouldn’t allow it, his body jogged toward Garth’s truck.
“Yeah, and it’s been fan-fucking-tastic, but one of my good friends looks like she’s being drawn and quartered, and my other good friend, in case he’s forgotten, has been drinking way too much for his pathetically low tolerance to get behind a wheel and drive.” When we broke to a stop in front of Garth’s truck, he threw open the passenger side door and waved Jesse toward it. When Jesse hesitated, Garth took a step toward us, looking like he was trying to work out how to throw us both in his truck if it came to it. “My truck’s right here. It’s newer, faster, safer, and only about a thousand times less likely to sputter out and die on the way there. I also happen to be a better driver.” Garth spun his keys around his fingers. “I was a race car driver in another life.”