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Molly growls, a sound that’s more adorable than angry, and stomps toward the door.
“This is why I didn’t wait until Monday,” Remy says. “So someone was around to nurse us back to health.”
“You’re an idiot.” I limp over to the cabinet and take a bottle of Tylenol off the shelf. It takes two tries to twist off the stupid childproof lid.
“All right. Geez, these are cold.” Molly dumps an armful of icepacks on the counter. “Who started the fight?”
“Why does it matter?” Remy asks.
“Because whoever started it,” she says slow enough to convey how irritated she is with us, “gets last dibs on the icepacks.”
I laugh and then wince at the pain spearing my cheek.
“Since no one’s answering, I’m assuming it was Remy,” Molly says.
“Hey!” Remy protests. “Why me?”
Molly glances at me and lifts an eyebrow.
“I can’t rat out my bro.” I shake my head.
Ignoring me, Molly turns toward her brother. “Take off your shirt.”
“What? Why? Just give me an icepack.”
“I want to see how badly you’re bruised.”
Remy lifts one side of his shirt up. His skin’s a pinkish red. Tomorrow it’ll probably be black-and-blue. Molly hisses out a pained breath and glares at me.
“What?” I point at Remy. “He started it.”
“I knew it!” She picks up the longest icepack and hands it to her brother. That’s my girl. Not a mean bone in her body. Her worry for Remy outweighs any anger at him. “You need help getting to your chair?”
“No. I’m going upstairs.” He presses the pack to his side.
“I’ll come check on you and change out the ice pack in a half an hour or so,” Molly promises.
“Thanks.” He pats her shoulder and walks slowly toward me. “You good?”
“I’ll live.”
He makes a fist and lightly taps my shoulder. Remy’s way of apologizing.
Once he’s gone, Molly sorts through the icepacks and finds one designed to wrap around my knee. “Come on. Let’s get this on you.” She looks at the pile and grabs two more packs. “Couch. Go.” She jabs her finger toward the living room.
“Nurse Molly’s stern bedside manner is really hot,” I say over my shoulder as I hop out of the kitchen.
She grumbles something I can’t make out.
Once she has me arranged on the cushions with an icepack on each aching spot, she sits cross-legged at the end of the couch, facing me. Tension twists between us and I shift my body closer to her.
“Griff, can you answer something seriously for me?”
“Always.”
She bites her lip. “Don’t be mad.”
I reach over and rest my hand on her knee. “I could never be mad at you.”
