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I stop and look down at her, taking in my favorite smile lines around her plump lips. There’s a slight pink tint to her cheeks from the pain she’s in. Her ankle must be killing her, but she hasn’t complained once. She’s so fucking strong, and I adore her. I would do anything for her, and that thought is voiced out loud as I echo her earlier response.
“Anytime, cupcake. Anytime.”
“See, I told you, SJ. It’s not broken,” Nora says triumphantly.
She’s lying on the exam gurney with an IV placed in the crook of her arm for pain medication. It might not be broken, but it’s a grade two sprain which can be very painful.
“Ms. Reyes, it may not be broken, but this recovery needs to be taken seriously. Especially with your profession,” Dr. Siegel states.
He’s the on-call emergency room doctor, and I immediately liked him. He took one look at her ankle and sent her for x-rays, like any good doc would do, and gave her some damn pain medication.
Her eyes cut to the doctor, and she sits up on the gurney. “I know that. Trust me, I know. This isn’t my first grade two or hell, even grade three sprain. I was making a joke to my friend, that’s all.”
I’m leaning on the wall to the side of her gurney, but the tone of her voice has me turning toward her in concern.
Her voice cracks a little as she continues. “I know I’ll be out of commission for four to six weeks. I know I can’t practice. I can’t perform. I know the drill, Dr. Siegel.”
Four to six weeks? Holy shit! I knew it was bad, but I didn’t realize how long she would be out. “Nora…” I say in concern.
“Not now,” she cuts me off and turns her attention back to the doctor. “When can I get out of here?”
“We just need a few minutes to get your paperwork together and your script for pain medication,” the doctor says before abruptly turning and pushing aside the curtain separating us from the other people in the emergency room tonight. “The nurse will bring all that when it’s ready. Ms. Reyes, take care of yourself and rest that ankle.” He gives a polite smile, a curt nod, then he leaves, letting the curtain fall back into place.
I don’t know what to say or how to comfort her. She must need it because she turns over on the gurney and curls into herself. A silent tear escapes and rolls down her cheek. I reach out before I can think better of it and catch it.
I continue to wipe away the stray tears that trail down her beautiful cheeks, finally touching the smooth skin across her cheekbone that I’ve dreamed of gracing with my fingertips. I just wish it wasn’t like this.
Screw it.
“Scoot over, cupcake,” I whisper as I drop my hip down on the bed and wait for her to roll back over. She does with no hesitation, sliding to the other edge of the tiny gurney.
I pray this thing holds the two of us, or she won’t be the only one needing medical help.
Once I settle my large frame on the tiny ass mattress, I roll over so I face her. She lifts as my arm slides around her back, pulling her close to my chest. We stay like that for several minutes, quietly absorbing the news and what this will mean for her.
She won’t be able to finish this dance tour. She’ll barely have time to practice for the upcoming season, and that’s only if her recovery goes perfectly.
She finally breaks the silence. “This is some shit luck, huh? I finally landed the part of my dreams, and I sprain my ankle. Not to mention the whole stalker ordeal.”
I pull her in tighter to me, unsure of what to say to help her feel better. Honesty seems to be the best policy with Nora, something I can appreciate. “It’s not the best of luck for sure, cupcake.”
My response has a little giggle slipping past her lips. She buries her face into my chest as her laughter continues. When her laughter finally slows, she rolls to her side so I can see her face more clearly.
“Leave it to you to know exactly what to say.” The smile on her face is tired and a little dopey from the pain medication.
I wish there were more I could say, but words full of lies—even if the intention is good—won’t cut it. Nora isn’t the kind of woman who enjoys bullshitting, and that’s exactly what it would be if I told her everything will be okay.
For her, this is life altering. One small moment has the possibility of altering her entire career, crushing her dreams, and changing her path in life.
When she says nothing more, I offer the one thing I can promise in a world of unknowns. “We’ll figure it out. One way or another.”
“How?” she whispers, what little voice lacing through it cracking.
I pull her in tighter and kiss the top of her head. Her sniffling lets me know she’s still crying, and that breaks my heart. I can’t handle her crying, and I’d do anything in the world to fix it. Even offering a crazy plan I’ve been cooking ever since I realized she won’t be able to dance for four to six weeks.
“I have an idea, but I’m unsure if you’ll like it,” I say tentatively.
Her response is immediate. “What kind of plan?”
