Chapter 6: Guilt Money

I spent half the night at OSU Wexner Medical Center, filling out ER forms, praying the front desk lady wouldn’t ask too many questions about my relationship to Shane.

The rest of my friend’s five grand all went to Shane’s hospital bills.

All my hard work, gone—the Jordans felt too tight, like they were squeezing my conscience with every step.

Guess karma’s real.

Shane was lucky—no concussion, just three stitches above his ear.

His right forearm was fractured and set in a blue cast that matched his eyes.

Two days in the hospital eating bland food, then he could go home.

With his arm busted, he couldn’t even button his jeans.

I felt too guilty to ditch him, so I took him home in an Uber XL.

He rented a quiet apartment in Grandview Heights, far from campus parties.

I kept apologizing, but Shane just stared out the window, silent.

If he wasn’t injured, he’d probably have decked me already.

His apartment was spotless—like an IKEA catalog, even had two thriving succulents.

Suddenly, he called from the bathroom.

"Luke, come here."

I leaned in the doorway. "You need help peeing? That’s a hard pass."

He rolled his eyes. "No, genius. Help me wipe down, I haven’t showered in two days."

He couldn’t stand the nurse’s sponge baths any longer.

I grabbed a towel and set the water to warm.

As I cleaned him up, his eyes bored into me, making my skin prickle.

His muscles were solid under my hands—years of training paid off.

Noticed the same body wash from the hotel.

"Why’d you want to put body wash on me that night? If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have fallen."

He muttered, "You really want to know?"

His voice dropped, eyes dark and unreadable.

I swallowed. "Forget it. Some things are better left unsaid."

After I wiped his upper body, I hesitated at his waistband.

Just as I moved lower, Shane pushed me away with his good hand.

"Don’t get ideas. Aren’t you straight?"

"I’m just helping, dude!"

I tossed the towel into the hamper, annoyed.

After I cleaned the bathroom, he said he was hungry.

"What do you want? I’ll order DoorDash."

He rattled off a list of takeout requests—fried rice, extra egg, no onions, and not a single jalapeño in sight.

Really treating me like his personal maid.

He gave me a look and let out a dramatic groan.

"Ouch, my arm hurts. Hurry up, the meds are wearing off."

I gritted my teeth. "Fine. You’re worse than my little sister."

I hit up the Chinese place on Kenny Road, got him fried rice, and left it at his door.

Rang twice, then bailed for campus.