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No.
This was not my fault. I would not call myself foolish. Or stupid. Or take the blame for any of this hurt inside me. This was him. Everyone.
But not me.
I hesitated to grab my phone because it was something he gave me, but fuck that, I was taking it. I needed it to call an Uber to get the hell out of there.
Too upset to bother changing, I stuffed the cell into the pocket of my sleep shorts and grabbed the crutches, jamming them under my arms. My eyes flicked to the hoodie lying across the foot of the bed, and my lip wobbled because, yeah, I wanted to put it on. I wanted to feel comforted by the soft, oversized fabric and a smell that, up until five minutes ago, I thought was home.
It wasn’t. I’d just freeze.
Dramatic? You’re damn right.
The journal entry solely responsible for bringing my memory back crinkled under my fist as I wrapped it and my hand around the handle of the crutch. I made my way out into the hallway and then stopped at the top of the stairs.
Thoughts of the way Ben carried me upstairs last night flashed through my head, and more tears threatened to fall.
“Oh hell no, Jess. You are not crying over some lying liar who reeks of chlorine.” I decided, dropping the crutches onto the floor with a clatter. I sat on my butt, legs out over the top step.
I didn’t need man muscle to get down the stairs. I could do it myself.
Snatching the crutches, I held them in one hand, jammed the note in my pocket with the other, and then slid off the top onto the step below it.
It was awkward. The stairs were fairly steep, and trying to hold on to two long wooden crutches was making it worse. So I let go of them.
Oops.
I watched them slide down the steps, knocking into each other and then hitting against the wall at the bottom and landing in a heap.
“What the fuck?” A faint voice echoed from somewhere downstairs.
I ignored it and went about my business, sliding down onto another step.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Max intoned, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.
“What the fuck does it look like?” I intoned back.
He sighed loudly like I was being ridiculous and stomped up the stairs.
“Get away from me,” I told him.
He rolled his eyes. “If you wanted to come down, you could have just called for me.”
“I’d rather roll down these stairs like a tumbleweed in the desert before asking any of you for help,” I smarted off.
His eyebrows arched halfway up his forehead, the ring in his brow glinting. I swear I saw a hint of a smile before he reached down and scooped me up like I wasn’t heavy at all.
Gasping, I went rigid.
“If you don’t stop flopping around like an uncoordinated giraffe, we’re both going down these steps like a tumbleweed in the desert,” he deadpanned.
“I don’t want your help.”
“Does it look like I give a damn?” Grunting, he went down the stairs, carefully avoiding the crutches lying at the bottom. “You could’ve gotten hurt,” he gruffly scolded as he walked toward a table adjacent to the kitchen.
“Like you care.”
Surprised, he glanced at me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
