He holds me, and allows me to say mine.
And when I finally fall asleep a hundred apologies later, the nightmare doesn’t follow.
I WAKE UP with Riley curled against my side, not wrapping herself around me like the last time we slept together but still pressing close.
Her head is on the pillow I gave her. Her hands are sleeve covered and shielding her mouth. She’s breathing slowly and evenly. She looks peaceful.
Finally. Took hours of crying to get her here.
Riley came to my room needing to apologize. I got that. She was feeling that blame and had been feeling it. I saw it in her eyes at the hospital. Saw it again standing in my living room with her, and if she didn’t give me her sorry and get that shit off her chest, it would eat away at her. She’d let that guilt tear her down. She’d keep it between us.
Fuck that. I didn’t want that. I don’t want anything between us.
That’s the only reason I keep my mouth shut and let Riley do what she needed to do.
I sure as fuck don’t want any apology from her. I don’t blame her for what happened that night. Not for any part of it. And I don’t want to see her crying—makes me want to go pay that cocksucker ex of hers a visit and pull his limbs off—but if it gets Riley past her guilt and allows us to move forward, fuck it. I’ll lay here, hold her, and take it.
And that’s exactly what I do.
Slept for shit `cause I kept waking up needing to make sure she wasn’t shedding tears again. My leg was killing me too. I could’ve used more of my pain meds, but I didn’t want to move and risk waking Riley.
She didn’t pass out until late. I have no idea what time, but she probably would’ve kept going if her body hadn’t exhausted on her.
Thank fuck it did.
Riley needs sleep. I know she has a test in class today. She shared that with me last night when I asked why she was flipping through flashcards while we were eating dinner.
She looked nervous about it and said it was worth a huge chunk of her grade so yeah, she needs sleep.
And I need to quit looking at her and go get some fucking coffee.
After scrubbing at my face with both hands, I roll to my side and push up, swinging my legs over and sitting on the edge of the bed. I glance down at my wrapped ankle.
My left leg feels heavier than my right. It feels that way all the time. Not just when I move it. There’s a constant dull ache running up my calf, worse now since I’ve gone all night without any pain meds. It hurts, but I can tolerate it. The Percocet they prescribed does its job, numbs it out for a while, but it also gives me that fucked up, foggy-head feeling. I don’t like taking it during the day. I don't like feeling out of it. Maybe I’ll save them up for when I start PT in a couple of weeks. I know that’s going to suck. Not just `cause I’ll be working my injury for the first time, but also `cause I know I’m going to be pushing myself.
No way am I staying laid up for five months.
I’ve always recovered quickly from injuries before. I broke my shoulder, ribs, and clavicle playing football growing up. Healed up faster than the doctors were expecting with those. And I know this won’t be any different.
I’m motivated. I can’t stand this laying around shit. I need to get back to work.
After pulling on the white t-shirt I discarded at the foot of the bed last night, I reach for my crutches propped against the wall and use them to help me stand. Then keeping my foot up, I maneuver out of the bedroom and head down the hallway.
I can’t put any weight on my left foot yet. Hurts like a motherfucker if I do—I found that out yesterday. But the second I’m able to, I’m ditching these crutches. They're a pain in the ass to use and I don’t like needing something to help me get around.
I already got plans for them too. I figure they’ll make good burning wood once I take off the rubber stoppers at the bottom and the padding around the handles.
I power on the Keurig and get my coffee made once I make it to the kitchen, then bracing against the counter for balance, I grab the box of Raisin Bran from on top of the fridge and go about pouring myself a bowl.
Back pressing to the hard edge of the granite, I stand in the kitchen and eat my breakfast, doing this while looking out into the living room.
My eyes cut to the notebooks Riley left out last night. They’re sitting on the lip of the counter where the bar stools are pulled up. A few papers are scattered there too.
Ditching a crutch and keeping hold of my bowl, I hobble over to the sink and lean over it to look at the papers. One in particular grabs my attention: Riley’s schedule. I glance it over while I shovel cereal into my mouth.
She has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mostly in the morning and ending just after one, unless she has labs. Clinical eats up her time the rest of the week.
Good to know.
I’m scraping cereal off the bottom of my bowl when quiet footsteps cause me to turn my head.
Riley steps into the room and stops a few feet away, hood still up and one eye peering at me. She digs a sleeve covered knuckle into the other and offers me a sleepy, “Hey”.
I lower my bowl and look at her, at the hoodie of mine she’s swimming in and her black painted toes peeking out from underneath her pajamas. Goddamn. She looks good waking up in my house.
Really fucking good.
“Mornin’,” I greet her, straightening up. I watch her brow pull tight after she lowers her hand. “What?”
“Why are you up? You should be off your feet,” she says, raising a hand to point at my leg.