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“You always take care of me,” she murmurs.
“We take care of each other, remember?” I rub my thumb over her cheek.
She looks down at her shirt. “I’m going to shower and brush my teeth. Wanna watch a movie when I get back?”
I nod. “I’ll make something mild for dinner.”
While she’s upstairs, I record the asshole’s voicemail onto my phone. I’m unquestionably going to beat Blake’s ass, but not tonight. Tonight is about taking care of Charlie. I call Lila and give her the Cliff’s-notes version of events. She’s appalled and furious. “I can be there in five minutes.”
“I’ve got this. I just wanted you to know.”
“Fucking asshole,” she mutters. “I think she’s only got two clients tomorrow. Two of her regulars have doctor’s appointments. Tell her to stay home. Tara and I will cover them.”
My next order of business is dinner. Charlie needs something light. I search the cabinets and freezer, deciding to make homemade chicken soup and sandwiches. I pull shredded rotisserie chicken from the freezer, collect some vegetables and broth, and drag a barstool to the other side of the island to work closer to the stove. I dice carrots, onions, and garlic and let them caramelize. When they’re soft, I add the chicken and broth, turning the heat high. I lean on my crutches while scouring the cabinets, finally locating noodles and adding those with frozen green beans and a healthy amount of sea salt and black pepper. When the soup bubbles, I drop the heat to low. I hear her shower cut off while I’m gathering what I need for turkey sandwiches, tearing leaf lettuce and slicing tomato. I leave the turkey in the fridge and the lettuce and tomato covered until she feels like eating. Finally, I fill a pitcher with ice water and wait for Charlie.
It’s not long before I hear bare feet padding downstairs. She’s dressed in her usual shorts and loose shirt. Her eyes are red and puffy, her face pale. She stops in the living room, and I hear the clinking of glass and crumpling of cans. She joins me in the kitchen, setting the rum bottle on the counter before taking the juice cans to her recycle bin. She shudders as she empties her glass in the sink and the smell hits her. “Easy,” I caution, watching her fighting nausea.
“Never again,” she mutters, and I chuckle.
“Fine. Never again before one pm,” she amends, then sniffs the air curiously. “Something smells good.” She lifts the lid on the pot and stirs the soup, inhaling. “Oh, wow.”
“It can hold until you’re able to eat. There’s stuff for turkey sandwiches too. Let’s start with water, and when you’re feeling better, we’ll try something stronger.”
She puts the lid back on the pot and comes to lean against my side. “Thank you.”
I grin down at her, slipping my arm around her. “It’s just soup.”
“No, it’s you letting me cry on your shoulder, listening to my drunk ramblings, holding my hair when I was puking, and yes, soup and a movie.”
“Remember when I first got out of the hospital and I kept thanking you, and you told me to quit because you and I take care of each other?” She nods. “Quit thanking me. This is what we do.” I kiss her damp hair. “Can you grab our water glasses? I’d do it, but they’ll be half empty by the time I get in there.”
She grabs the glasses and pitcher and follows me to the living room. “I need to see when you can take me to the VA in Pueblo,” I say over my shoulder. “I need X-rays and a CT scan of my leg next month. If everything looks good, I may be able to have surgery in late August.”
Her face lights up. “That’s just a little over two months away!”
I grin. “Yep. I might actually be walking on my own before Christmas.”
“That’s wonderful!”
“Don’t get excited yet. My femur has to be healed enough for the surgery,” I caution her.
“So after you have the CT scan and X-rays, then what?”
“If my femur is healed enough for weight bearing, they’ll measure how much of my tibia remains and create a custom implant based on my bone structure. They attach the implant directly to the bone, and a plastic surgeon will reshape the soft tissue. I’ll stay a few days in the hospital, and I should progress to weight bearing with about twenty pounds of pressure within the first few days after surgery.” I point to a thick book I’ve been working my way through. “There’s a ton of information on the process if you’re interested.”
“I’ll read it. I’ve seen the after-effects in clients, but I don’t know a lot about the implantation process. Schedule the appointment and I’ll get Tara to cover for me.” She rubs her forehead, then opens a bottle of aspirin. She tosses back two tablets and downs a full glass of water.
“Maybe you should slow down a little,” I suggest.
“My stomach’s better. I need my head to stop pounding.”
“Alright. Pick a movie,” I say. She grabs the remote and scans the streaming channels, skipping everything with even a hint of sex or romance.
A stand-up comedy special seems to help. She leans against me as we laugh. We pause halfway through for sandwiches and soup, returning to eat on the couch so we can continue watching the comedian.
Charlie tastes the soup and smiles, looking surprised. “This is really good.”
“Your mom taught me her recipe.”
