Page 37 of Total Jane Wreck

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

“But—”

Chet pulls me into a fierce hug. His arms are strong, and he presses me close. I’m nearly as hot and breathless as I was while inhaling smoke. Chet’s grip on me loosens. “Holy shit,” he says, looking down. “What happened to you?”

Following his gaze, I realize that both my feet are puffy and raw pink, especially the one without a flip-flop. Up until this moment, adrenaline was masking my burns. Now the pain toddles in, late and loud.

“You’re gonna get an infection,” Chet declares.

“It’s nothing,” I say, which is a lie.

Chet’s eyes narrow, like he can see through my bravado. “Do you understand what nothing means?” Not waiting for my response, he squats and, before I can protest, lifts my right foot in his palm. His thumb hovers just above the worst of the burns, and for one insane, mortifying second, I think he’s going to kiss my foot like I’m a storybook princess.

Instead, Chet stands and hoists me—just freaking lifts me under the arms, burning feet and all—and stalks toward his house. I squirm, gripping his biceps, which are solid yet smooth. “All this fuss really isn’t necessary—” I interrupt myself, accidentally whimpering when my foot brushes his jeans “—and I’m heavier than I look.”

“You’re lighter than a sack of feed, Jane. Stop fighting.” Chet doesn’t let go until we’re in his enclosed deck, where, weeks ago, I sat and drank wine with Marigold and Axel Rose. Chet deposits me onto a cushy piece of patio furniture. “Don’t move,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

He vanishes inside, into what I assume is a utility closet. I hear cabinets opening and closing, muttered curses, glass jars rattling. When Chet returns, he’s carrying a red plastic bin, the top hastily popped off so the gauze and ointments spill out like guts. He kneels before me, yanks open four alcohol wipes, and says, “This is going to sting. Don’t punch me.”

I grit my teeth, prepared to tough it out, but the second the swab hits my skin, I yelp. Chet’s face softens. “You can cuss me out if it helps.”

“It won’t help,” I huff, then let loose anyway. “Sweet mother of Peggy Sue, that burns worse than the fire!”

Chet chuckles, but his touch is careful, almost angelic. He wraps my foot in a dressing, tapes it down, and moves to the next. “Why were you barefoot, anyway?”

“My flip-flop fell off.”

He makes a noise deep in his throat and determines that the left foot isn’t as bad as the right. The hard lines of Chet’s face are smudged with ash below his eyes. His hair is wild, as if he’s been through a wind tunnel. With scraped and raw knuckles, he finishes bandaging me in silence. Placing cold packs against my feet, Chet looks up at me. For a second, I forget the pain.

“You should see a doctor,” he says, breaking the spell. “I can drive you to the emergency room right now, if you want. Otherwise, tomorrow—”

“I’ll be fine. I have a high pain tolerance. It’s inherited.” I try to smile, but suddenly I’m so exhausted that even moving my mouth is a chore. “I just need rest.”

Chet releases a sigh. “You should sleep inside, in one of the guest rooms.”

A moment of clarity breaks through my exhaustion. I catch Chet’s gaze. His eyes are full of apologies and unspoken confessions. But the nature of those confessions—that, I don’t know.

This man, who cries during Babe, who’s afraid of spiders, who saved Miss Adele, and who dressed my burns just now with strong yet gentle hands, is a self-proclaimed bastard determined to stay away from me. And apparently, he’s capable of abandoning his girlfriend while she’s battling cancer. If that’s not the case, if he wasn’t the one to break things off—well, then he’s most likely still hung up on her.

“It’s alright,” I say. “My trailer is fine.”

“I insist,” Chet says. “You’ll be much more comfortable inside the house. Besides, that way I can keep an eye on you.”

“But—”

Fatigue prevents me from forming the rest of my response. Plus, Chet is too quick for me, picking me up again, bridal style. “I won’t take no for an answer, and I insist that you take the next few days off. No more work until you can wear boots without it hurting like hell.”

I don’t argue. What would be the point?

He carries me inside and upstairs. “Here we go,” Chet says. We enter a room with a queen-sized bed, covered with a hand-sewn quilt in the wedding ring pattern. He lays me down. “I’ll go fetch whatever you need from your trailer.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need anything else tonight. That all can wait until the sun comes up.”

“No.”

“No?” My brain feels fuzzy. Pretty sure my words are fuzzy as well. “What do you mean, no?”