“Do you have wipes or something in here?” I ask when she’s sitting in the passenger seat. The door is open, rain still pouring as she holds her heels in her hand, her right foot crossed over her lap.
“In the glove box.”
I round the other side of the car, searching through her glove box to find some wipes. When I get back to her side of the car, she’s trying to tend to her ankle, twisting it in all different positions. I’m not a doctor, but I’m also not an idiot. It looks swollen, it’s got mud all over it and she isn’t impressed with it either.
I hand her the wipes. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to clean these, and I’ll check out your ankle. Deal?”
She nods, retrieving them and starting to clean off her heels. I’m surprised she didn’t put up more of a fight about it, but I think we’ve got to the point where we’re both too tired to even fight it anymore. I’m going to help her and she’s going to let me.
Her feet aren’t particularly big, but they just feel like they are when they are right in my face. Her toes are painted red, matching her dress and there’s a line around the top of her foot from the imprint of the heel shape.
Gripping onto her ankle lightly, she winces, pausing her scrubbing and I mutter a ‘Sorry’ in response. I don’t know what possessed her to go out in the rain and try and run off from me because all she got out of it was a fucked-up ankle and dirty shoes. I put pressure on the spot I can tell is sore and I pinch one of the wipes from her and clean off her ankle. Cleaning it off has probably made it look worse because now it looks even angrier. I’m still staring at her foot when I hear her shoes landing in the backseat.
The rain has slowed now, and it doesn’t feel like we have to shout just to hear each other. She peers down at me, swatting her hair from her face.
“What’s the verdict? Am I going to survive, Doc?” she asks, yanking her foot from my grip and setting it down in front of her across her lap. I take it as a sign to back up from her, so I stand, leaning on the open car door.
I tut, shaking my head. “No, I think I’m going to have to amputate your leg,” I joke, and she frowns, tilting her head to the side. “You’ll be out of service for a few days.”
She gasps. “A fewdays?”
“Yep. No strenuous activities for you.”
“No strenuous activities,” she mocks, her voice an octave higher than her usual one.
“None,” I say.
“Not even dancing?”
“Not even dancing.”
“Walking?”
“No walking.”
She nods thoughtfully and I swear I catch the exact second her eyes light up with excitement. “What about sex? Missionary only.”
I shake my head. “Especially not that.”
She sulks. “So, what am I supposed to do? Just sit around all day and wait for it to magically heal?”
“I’m sure you can find other ways to entertain yourself,” I whisper.
I do the dumbest thing I could possibly do and brush her hair behind her ear. It was wet and sticking to her face, driving me insane that she hadn’t removed it. It was only fair for the common good to sort it out before my OCD had a field day. I've already touched her enough as it is today, but one more time won’t hurt.
Our gazes lock as she realises what I just did. She tenses at the contact, her eyes going wide for a second. It’s such an unnecessarily intimate move. I drop my hand, clearing my throat.
“We should go,” she whispers. “I don’t want to miss out on anything more than what I've already missed.”
I blink at her, pulling back. “You still want to go to that?”
“I didn’t wear this outfit to just sit around at home. You can drop me off at the club and I’ll Uber home and pick up my car tomorrow.”
“Fine, but I’m going to come in with you. I can’t have my project partner breaking her leg. You’ll be even more unbearable to work with,” I say, my pathetic excuse to stay close to her and keep her from getting herself into trouble.
“Fine,” she huffs, turning back into the seat.
When is today going to end?
