Mel stayed crouched in front of me, steady as ever.
“You’re coming home with me,” she said. Not a suggestion.
“I’m not.”
“You can’t drive like that.”
“I can absolutely drive like this. It’s not my driving leg.”
“Belle.”
“I’m not moving into your spare room every time my life hiccups.”
“This isn’t a hiccup.”
I pushed up from the bench too fast. Pain detonated through my knee.
“See?” I snapped. “I’m fine.”
Mel stood slowly, giving me space instead of pushing back.
“All I’m offering is a bed and ice packs.”
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
I hated that my eyes stung. I hated that the locker room suddenly felt too small.
“I just—” I stopped.
The words were tangled up with invoices, Monday, the cramped van, and a basement that paid double.
“I’ve got it,” I said finally.
Mel held my gaze.
“Okay,” she said with a reluctant nod. “Door’s open. Always.”
The simplicity of it almost broke me. “Thank you,” I muttered.
She squeezed my shoulder once.
“Text me when you get . . . wherever you’re going.”
“Obviously.”
She didn’t ask where that was. That was worse.
Getting to the van was humbling. I could put weight on it, technically, even if each step felt unstable. By the time I lowered myself into the driver’s seat, sweat beaded along my hairline again from the exertion of the small trip.
I sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.
“Not ideal,” I murmured.
The drive was short. Every stoplight felt longer. Every press of the brake reminded me that knees are deeply involved in existing. I parked in my usual corner of the gym. I had a couple of places where I felt safe to park. I rotated them so no one would complain if I parked in one place too long. Tonight, the closest spot to the gym would mean less walking in the morning.
I cut the engine and climbed carefully into the back of the van and lowered myself onto the mattress with a hiss. The ice pack had melted into a sad, lukewarm blob. I rewrapped it around my knee anyway. The swelling looked worse now.
