“And not to point out the obvious,” Christopher said, gesturing to my foot that felt like it was twice the size it usually was—an uncomfortable tight, throbbing sensation. “You can’t do those steps with a bum leg. I’m not sure how you do them when it’s raining.”
I figured it wouldn’t help my case to mention how many mornings I’d thrown my arms out to grab the railing and prayed it wasn’t the day they finally did me in.
“So, you’re coming home with me,” Brio concluded.
“Brio, I love you. I love Ezmeray. I love the kids, dogs, cats, birds, and that freaky-ass lizard. But no.”
“You have a lot of stairs too,” Christopher said.
“Hotel?” Venezio suggested.
“She could stay with me. I can give her my room and take the couch.”
The way my belly flipped made me wonder if I’d only turned down Brio because I wanted to see if Christopher would offer.
“Liam and Charlotte would be able to lend a hand if she needed anything,” he added, making his case.
Brio glanced at him for just a second too long before looking at me. “Up to you. You can stay with me, with Chris, with anyone else in the Family. But you’re staying with someone.”
I pretended to hem and haw it.
“Charlotte would be good company.”
“Good. It’s settled,” Christopher said, like he was afraid I might change my mind.
“I’ll send someone to pack you a bag,” Brio said, reaching for his phone. “And Tuna,” he added as the dog in question walked into the room, sniffed, then turned around and left.
“What do—” Brio started, but then there was a clap, making us all jump to find Salvatore standing in the doorway.
“Heya, sweetheart,” he greeted me with a smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes. “Hear you fucked up your foot.”
“Or ankle. Or both. It just feels like one big ache. Emphasis on big,” I said, lifting up my pant leg.
“I’m gonna go grab you that coffee,” Christopher said.
“I’m gonna take Tuna for a walk,” Brio said, following Christopher out.
“I’m gonna… be somewhere else,” Venezio said.
Alone with Salvatore, I answered his questions as he poked, prodded, and manipulated my foot and ankle before declaring I needed an x-ray. Which he had. I knew because Ant had just broken his wrist, and they figured it out by taking him to Salvatore.
Luckily, by the time I was rolled there in a wheelchair, I had a few long swigs of coffee in me, and felt like I could think clearly again. Though my stomach was growling loud enough for everyone to hear as I was rolled past the waiting room after my scan.
I’d just gotten back on the table when the door flew open, and something was chucked through the air at me. Catching it on instinct, I found a brownie protein bar in my hand.
“Stomach was growling,” Venezio said before turning and walking off.
“His bedside manner might leave a lot to be desired,” Salvatore said as he came in, “but he’s good at what he does. Alright,” he said, stabbing the x-ray film into the light box. “Itlooks like you lucked out. I don’t see a fracture. Judging by the pain, swelling, and some bruising I’m seeing settle in, you have a Grade 2 sprain. Which is a moderate, partial tear of the ligament.”
“That’s not something I need a cast for, right?”
“No. A boot would be smart. You likely can walk on it, but it will hurt, and you might have a ‘giving out’ sensation. You’re usually going for RICE with this kind of injury.”
“Is the rice for eating? Using as a heating pad? Chucking at my enemies…”
Salvatore huffed out a laugh.
“Rest, ice, compression, elevation. Stay off it, ice it, put on compression socks, and try to keep it up above your heart as much as possible.”
