Saturday night/Sunday morning, 2:30 a.m.
His hazel eyes wanted to close, but Will knew that he had to keep his wits about him now, especially considering that he was driving home along a stretch of highway renowned for being a speed trap and had, perhaps, had one too many Bombay Sapphire and tonics at the bar.
To some degree, the latter was related to his continued failure to meet "the right girl." Ever since his breakup with Marissa three years previous, Will had been both disillusioned at the thought of being in a romantic relationship and craving such a relationship more and more each day. Or was it simply sex that he wanted?
A not-unattractive young man of 28, his short sandy blonde hair now reeking of cigarette smoke and liquor, Will thought about all of the scantily-clad, desirable young things he had seen tonight. Most of them couldn't have been much older than his 20-year-old sister, so initially, he had rationalized his failure to "score" away by telling himself that they would have found him to be too mature for their needs (i.e., a "don't ask questions, just fuck me" kind of attitude). Still, the thought of turning one of those hot little honeys around, yanking up her short, flimsy skirt, pulling her thong to the side, and taking her right there in the crowded watering hole held a good deal of appeal for the 6'1" junior editor. If only...
Suddenly, straight ahead of him, was an orange traffic cone. Will swerved to the right to avoid it, but in so doing, took his car over the shoulder and violently into the ditch. Although he was wearing his seat and lap belts and the airbag deployed properly, Will's forearms were thrust back with such ferocity that, in the seconds before he lost consciousness, he felt the most searing pain of his life shoot from his fingertips to the nape of his neck.
Sunday afternoon, 5 p.m.
Will tried lifting the spoonful of green Jell-O to his mouth with his left hand, but was finding it difficult. He had awakened from his accident-induced unconsciousness about 9 a.m. to find himself in a nondescript hospital room with a cast around his right wrist. Subsequently, he learned from the harried doctor on rounds that he had broken his wrist, but was otherwise relatively unscathed from the accident. He even found out that his car, save for two bald tires, wouldn't need major repairs.
Not that he would be driving for a while, anyhow. He would be discharged from the hospital Monday morning, but would be in the cast for at least a month, which meant that his day-to-day work and everyday life would be impossible. For that, Will was actually somewhat grateful; his job bored him to tears, so a month off – even if it meant he would be left-handed and somewhat useless – was an enticing prospect.
After he had managed to get through most of his meal and didn't want any more, the pain in his wrist grew and he stretched to hit the "call" button, thinking that he'd get a pain pill or some relief of some kind. In about 45 seconds, a young, petite, dark-haired, olive-skinned nurse – about his age, he figured – walked into his room.
"What do you need?" she asked, somewhat exasperated that she had rushed in here and not found some emergency requiring her immediate attention.
"My wrist is killing me. Have anything to help with that?"
"Let me check," she said as she walked out of Will's room.
About a minute passed before the raven-haired RN came back into the room, this time, cup and painkiller in hand.
"This should do the trick – for a couple of hours, at least," she said as she placed the two items in Will's open left palm. As she leaned nearer to pass him the cup, he could now read her name tag – Natalie Turner.
"Thanks," Will said as he gulped down the lukewarm water and the painkiller.
If she took her hair down out of that ponytail – and stepped out of those awful salmon-colored scrubs – she'd probably be pretty hot, Will thought. Then again, his mind continued, I think pretty much every girl that doesn't look like my mom is hot.
"If you can, once the pain subsides a bit, try to exercise your hand by turning it side to side, making fists, and so on. That should speed the recovery process somewhat. My guess is that you'll still have to do some PT once the cast comes off, but..."
"Will do – thanks again."
With that, Nurse Turner left. In five minutes, Will felt better – a bit loopy, but better. He tried to focus on the baseball game on the TV, but to no avail. He soon fell back asleep.
Sunday evening, 8:15 p.m.
Bit by bit, Will awoke to find the nurse cautiously checking his cast and his swollen right hand. A quick flash on her left hand told him that she was yet another woman his age who was "attached" and, therefore, he assumed, unavailable to him.
He opened his eyes as wide as he could and yawned. At this, Nurse Turner turned to face him and smiled.
"Have a nice nap?"
"I guess. Didn't think about the pain for a while."
Natalie went back to studying the cast and Will's hand for any abnormalities beyond that which was to be expected only 18 hours or so since a pretty major break.
"That's good. As the doctor said earlier, you'll be out..."
She stopped mid-sentence, laid Will's hand gently on the bed, turned, slowly walked to the armchair to the right of Will's bed, and sat down.
"You okay? Or should I ask, 'Am I okay?'"
The nurse said nothing, but seemed to be staring straight ahead.
"Hey, um, Nurse – Natalie, right...you okay?"
Will was, to say the least, perplexed. One minute, she's going over my cast and the next, she's a fuckin' zombie, he thought.
"Do you want me to call the nurse's station?"
"No," the nurse said. It sounded like she had been drugged.
"What do you need then?"
"I'm not sure. I...I..."
"You what?"
A look of true fear shown through in the young nurse's eyes.
"I need to be told what to do."
"Huh?"
"I...I need to be told what to do."
"Aren't you trained to handle broken wrists?"
"Yes, but...I mean..."
Holy shit, Will thought. This chick is in some kind of trance. I don't know how or why, but it's cool as hell.
"You want me to tell you what to do – is that it?"
"I...think so," the scared nurse said meekly.
It's like Christmas in July. Will's internal monologue was proceeding at a mile a minute.
"Tell me your full name."
"Natalie Christine Turner." This voice was much more self-assured. Must be because there's someone "in control" now, Will mused.
"How old are you?"
"25."
"Are you married?"
"No."
"Engaged?"
"No."
"Why do wear that big rock on your left hand then?"
"To keep creepy guys from hitting on me."
What a bitch – a bitch getting more attractive by the second, but a bitch nevertheless, Will thought.
"When was the last time you had sex?"
"Two weeks ago."
