Boot(s)

30- Boot

Sergeant Jackson

"Fucking finally." I turned around to face Bo, tossing my wallet and phone on the kitchen counter. He was hanging up the car keys, taking his sweet time in looking at me.

"Finally?" He raised his eyebrows like he didn't know exactly why I was so chipper.

I snorted. "Don't act like you haven't been dying to get home. That took way longer than I thought it would. Why did Jessie have to invite us in for afternoon tea, anyway? What the hell was that?"

He cracked a bit of a smile and a half-laugh, but his eyes were focused on checking his phone instead of looking at me. "You want pizza?" Quickly, he looked up at me for a half a second—if that.

"No, Bo," I waited until he slid his phone back in his pocket to keep going. "I want to talk."

He closed one of his eyes, squinting, evaluating me. "So, no pizza?"

Fuck, he was adorable.

I couldn't resist him, or pizza. "Well yeah, I want pizza. Pepperoni, please."

He pulled his phone back out of his pocket and pulled up the number. He ventured an eye roll at me, placing the phone to his ear. "Come on. I know your pizza order... Yeah, hi, I'd like to place a takeout order... One large pie, half pepperoni half cheese... Bobby... Yeah, that's fine... Got it. Thanks. Bye."

He didn't give them an address. "We picking it up?"

He pulled his car keys off the wall before answering me. He was already grabbing the doorknob when he replied, "Yeah, I'll go. It'll be quick. Back in a few."

I couldn't get out more than "Wait, I'll come—" before Bo was slamming the door behind him.

He left around 5. He didn't walk back into the front door until 7:50. I had called him six times—straight to voice mail. Called Jess, she didn't pick up, obviously. I was about to dial the hospital to see if any six-foot-five lanky brunettes had landed on one of their stretchers, but then, he walked in: cold, grease-stained pizza box in his hand, 3 hours later than he said he would. I could see his phone shoved in his front right pocket. I jumped up from the seat at the kitchen table I had been shaking and praying in. I didn't even grab the crutches when I took a few giant steps towards him.

"What the hell, Bo?"

He tossed the pizza on the table, not answering me. He ran both hands through his hair, inhaling deeply.

"Bobby! Look at me!" I resisted the urge to grab him and shake him. Slowly, he peeled his arms away from his eyes. One of them dropped, the other still tugged at his waves. He looked like he had been crying, or like he was trying not to. He looked exactly how I had been feeling for the past three hours: terrified of the worst possible thing that could happen. For some reason, I got the feeling that our answers to the worst possible thing that could happen were slightly different. I had been sitting here, my hands shoved under my legs to keep them steady, thinking my best friend was lying somewhere on the side of the road, helpless. Dying. And what the fuck was he so worked up about?

"Where have you been, Bo? I've been worried, terrified really, that you—that you got in some horrible... some horrible accident—" I choked on the last word, so I had to stop speaking. That, and Bo was pulling my head into his chest so I didn't need to. I took five deep breaths and willed my body not to break.

When he pulled away from me, all he did was look down at me and say, "I'm fine. Just went for a drive."

I took a shaky step back. "No, fuck your drives! And your cold pizza! Couldn't have told me you needed space? Maybe I would have bought my own pizza. Maybe I wouldn't have given myself an ulcer convincing myself you were dead!"