There had to be metal in there. There had to have been countless stitches, maybe more than one surgery, to keep a leg looking like that. My chest ached with a familiar, suffocating guilt. I’d spent years telling myself my parents were dead because of her but here she was held together by stitches and ligaments.
My chest ached with a familiar, suffocating guilt. I’d blamed her because it was easier than grief. It was easier to hate than to feel anything else. I pulled the blanket back up, tucking it gently around her waist.
“I’m sorry, Ness,” I whispered to the quiet room.
I didn't mean to fall asleep, but the exhaustion of the week caught up to me.
I woke hours later to a sharp, stifled cry. The bed shifted violently. Vanessa was jackknifed upright, her face slick with sweat.
“Ness?”
She didn't answer. She tried to swing her legs off the bed, but her left leg locked, rigid and useless. She collapsed onto the floor before I could catch her.
“Jesus Christ!” I lunged off the bed, scooping her up and laying her back on the mattress. She was gasping, her eyes dilated with agony.
“My leg. The pain,” she choked out.
I started to rub the muscle, but she groaned so sharply I jerked my hands back. “What do I do? Tell me.”
“Nothing. It lasts hours. Like a charley horse that won't quit.”
I didn’t think; I just reacted. I bolted for the laundry room and grabbed a wide plastic storage bin—the kind meant for heavy loads. I hauled it into the kitchen, dumping the entire contents of the ice maker into it before topping it off with cold water.
The bin was heavy and awkward, but I carried it back to the bedroom, the water sloshing over the sides. I set it down on a towel at the foot of the bed and knelt in front of her.
“Ness, look at me. Trust me,” I said. My voice was firm, the tone I used when a merger was failing and I needed everyone to stay calm. I didn't leave her any room to argue.
I slid my arms under her calves and gently guided her legs toward the edge of the mattress. I lowered her injured leg into the freezing water, supporting her thigh so the ice could fully submerge the knee. She let out a sharp, ragged breath—a sound of pure shock—but within seconds, I saw the white-knuckled tension leave her jaw. The cold was doing what I couldn't: it was numbing the nerve and forcing the muscle to surrender.
I stayed there on the floor, bracing the bin with my own body so she wouldn't slip, my hand resting just above the waterline on her thigh. It was a grounding wire, a way to tell her I wasn't going anywhere.
I stayed there on the floor for a long time, bracing the bucket with my feet and keeping one hand steady on her thigh to keep her leg submerged. We were face to face. I watched the color return to her cheeks, my hand grounding her. It felt more intimate than any of the sketches I’d seen in her notebook.
Eventually, her eyes fluttered shut. I dried her leg with a towel, tucked her back in, and—knowing I wouldn't sleep a wink otherwise—I climbed in behind her. I draped my arm over her waist, pulling her back against me until there was no daylight left between us. I stayed awake for a long time, watching the shadows stretch across the wall, standing guard against the pain that seemed determined to steal her peace.
When the sun started to bleed through the curtains, I felt her wake. She froze. I knew the exact second she realized my arm was heavy around her and that my body was reacting to hers with morning wood I couldn't control.
I felt her squirm, her hips pressing furtherinto me.
“Morning,” I murmured against her hair, my voice raspy.
She wiggled again, trying to escape. I tightened my grip for just a second. “When you wiggle your ass like that, Ness, you’re just making it worse.”
I felt her go still, the air between us crackling with a different kind of tension. I finally let go, and she was out of the bed before I could breathe. She looked shaken, her eyes wide as she headed for the door.
“Nessa.”
“Please. Don't make me talk about it,” she begged.
I felt a sharp flicker of disappointment, but I didn't press. She stopped at the door, turned back, and squeezed my hand for a brief, fleeting second.
“Thank you, Elliott. Really.”
Then she hobbled away, leaving me alone in a bed that suddenly felt far too cold.
nineteen
VANESSA
