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The moment to confide in Debbie was here, but she rushed forward and hugged me around the arms and whispered, “Please.”
I didn’t say anything as she left because it was a promise I wasn’t sure I could keep. Lowering my gaze, I slowly eased up the makeshift bag. My skin was red from the cold.
My ringer on my cell phone went off an hour or so later, but I didn’t even look at it. Lying on my back, I’d shoved a pillow under my knee to keep it elevated. By the time I had to hobble down the hall for more ice, the pain had become a constant ache that spiked every so often, as if someone had placed a lit match against my skin.
My knee was swollen. The ice and elevation weren’t helping. I hadn’t heard a pop when I fell, but the swelling was bad news bears. And I knew I couldn’t test my weight on it. Not yet.
There were two more calls that night. Out of the three, two of them were from Jase, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer the phone. Last night . . . last night now felt like forever ago.
I stared at the phone, lip trembling as it signaled a message being left. As the screen blinked black, I reached for it, but drew up short. I couldn’t talk to him yet. If I did, there was a good chance I’d lose it.
Because if my knee was blown again, everything changed. This wouldn’t be temporary. There would be no going back to the studio. This . . . I looked around the dorm . . . this would truly be my life. This whole time I’d been faking it.
I pulled my hand back and rested my forehead against my palm. Another spasm rolled up my leg. I couldn’t deal with this again—the pain, the surgery, the rehab. But this time . . . I shuddered. This time would be different because the worst possible thing you could do to a torn ACL was to reinjure it. Doing so increased the chances of permanent instability.
And I wouldn’t be able to dance again.
When I finally slept, I don’t think I dreamed, and when I woke, the swelling had increased until my knee looked twice its size. I didn’t even consider getting more ice. I knew it wouldn’t do any damn good. I had no crutches, so there was no way I was walking to class. I stayed in my bed as acid churned in my stomach.
My cell went off a few minutes after music class would’ve started. Thinking it was Calla or Debbie—who’d sent me two texts checking in that I hadn’t responded to—I was surprised to see it was from Jase. I still hadn’t checked his message.
Where r u?
Squeezing my eyes shut until they burned, I sat up a little. He deserved a response, even after all those times he ignored me. This wasn’t about him. I sent him a quick message back.
Not feeling well.
His response was immediate.
R u ok?
Scrubbing my suddenly wet eyes, I texted back a quick yes, and then tossed the phone on the foot of the bed.
I knew I needed to call Dr. Morgan and Mom, but the mere thought of doing so caused my chest to seize. The pain and swelling—I already knew what it meant. My future and my dreams were over. I didn’t need a doctor to tell me that.
Another shudder worked its way through me. Curling onto my side, I wrapped my arm around my pillow and shoved my face in it. The soft material quickly became damp. They weren’t big tears. Just silent and unending. The hurt in the pit of my stomach was as strong as the pain in my knee.
It was a little after twelve thirty when there was a sharp rap on the door. I had no idea who it could be. Maybe my yet-to-be-seen suitemates? Frowning, I hastily wiped my cheeks as I sat up, and then cleared my throat. “Come in.”
I tugged the quilt over my right leg. I don’t know why I wanted to hide it. Maybe it was like if no one else saw it, then it wasn’t true. Sort of a stupid mentality, but I was barely holding myself together. I was seconds away from throwing myself to the floor and flailing.
The door opened, and I blinked once and then twice, thinking I was seeing things, but the person before me didn’t vanish.
Jase strolled into my room, like he’d done it a million times. He was dressed in jeans and a black, long-sleeved shirt, and a plastic bag dangled from his long fingertips. He drew up short when he spotted me.
Concern filled his gray eyes. “Wow. You do look rough.”
I cringed. Must’ve been the puffy eyes. “Thanks.”
A small smile crossed his lips as he came forward. “You don’t look that bad.” He sat on the edge of the bed, placing the bag on the floor between his feet. “Should I be worried?”
My brows rose. I was still too stunned by seeing him to understand where he was going with that statement.
“Is whatever you have contagious?” he clarified.
“Oh. No.” I paused, peeking up at him through damp lashes. “Why are you here?”
“Why?” He coughed out a laugh. “Seems pretty obvious.” Bending over, he picked up the bag and pulled out a plastic container. “Chicken noodle soup. Not for the soul. But for your hopefully not contagious disease.”
