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“Bed. I’m beat.”
“It’s been a rough twenty-four.” He finds the treats, and Postie and Malone bumble over to their dishes and plunk their butts down.
I hobble the short distance to my bedroom. The covers have already been turned down, and the sheets changed. Two bottles of water sit on my nightstand, with the book that was on the side table in the living room beside it, along with two hockey magazines. She’s so damn thoughtful, and I’m over here sabotaging her dates because I can’t control myself. And fucking her scrunchie like a creep because I can’t have her.
I look over to my dresser. I put her scrunchie there after I washed it, and now it’s gone. Fuck.
That’s a conversation I don’t want to have.
I set my crutches against my nightstand and gingerly sit on the edge of my bed. I pull my hoodie over my head and toss it aside as I stretch out on the fresh sheets.
Roman appears in the doorway. “You need anything before I go?”
“I’m good. Thanks for getting me home.”
“No problem. I’m heading to practice, but if you need anything, just message. And Peggy said she’d stop by after her classes to check on you and the boys.”
“She doesn’t need to do that,” I say.
“She’s worried. She had a rough night. She wanted to be here when you got home, but she has a meeting with one of her professors. I don’t think she slept well, so you know, maybe let her do what she does.”
“Okay.” Last year when I had my first knee surgery, she cried on me in the hospital. But I haven’t been alone with her since I ruined her date. Such an asshole move.
Roman taps the doorframe. “I’ll be back later to check on you.”
Postie and Malone jump on the bed and curl up beside me as Roman leaves. Their warm little bodies feel like the only thing anchoring me right now. Postie is constantly peeping his head up then scooting closer as if to make sure I’m okay. He always has a sixth sense for when I’m fucked up.
I drop a message in the family chat to let everyone know I’m home and I’ll call them later. Micha has been great about keeping everyone updated, and I messaged her late last night when I got out of surgery to let her know things had gone well. I’m wiped, so it doesn’t take long for me to pass out again. I wake up several hours later to a horrible throb in my knee and the sound of Aurora talking to the boys.
“I brought your favorite, boys. I know we ran out, and you had to settle for chicken instead of salmon. I’m sure it was rough,” she cajoles softly. A giggle follows. “I love you, too, Postie, and you, Malone.” Excited meows accompany the sound of a can being opened.
I need to take the prescription anti-inflammatories and get this pain under control. I sit up and push the covers aside. I’m forced to take a few deep breaths before I shift my legs over the edge of the bed. The pain flares with the movement, and my stomach rolls uncomfortably. I breathe through it. I don’t want to vomit on myself. All I’ve eaten is buttered toast today.
When the nausea abates, I reach for my crutches, but I’m uncoordinated. They clatter to the floor, out of reach. “Fuck.”
“Hollis? Are you okay?” Aurora rushes in.
I raise a hand. “Fine, just clumsy.”
She picks up my crutches. “What do you need? What can I get you?”
I glance at her for a second, but my head is swimming, and the nausea is overwhelming, so I go back to staring at the floor. She’s wearing loose-fitting jeans and socks with cats on them. I gave them to her last year for her birthday.
I hold out a hand. “I need my crutches.”
I hate that I’m right back where I was less than a year ago. And it feels worse this time, the pain more intense. I’m fresh out of surgery, though, and the first few days are always the worst. I hate not being able to manage shit on my own. I don’t want Aurora to see me like this again.
“Do you need to use the bathroom? I can help you get there,” she says softly.
“I don’t need the bathroom, and I don’t need help.” I’m a snappy asshole.
“You’re sweating, your face is green, and while you’re always hot as hell, you also look like actual hell, Hollis. I’m standing right here, asking you what you need. Let me help you, please.” Her voice cracks.
I slowly lift my eyes. She’s on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m in a lot of pain.”
“There’s a prescription on the counter. Can I get it for you?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I concede. Other than my sisters and Roman, I haven’t had someone look out for me—try to take care of me—like she does. I should get her to leave, setting more boundaries I wish I could barrel through.
