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I trace one of the thick Velcro straps.
I can’t stand the fact that she’s still hurt. That she’ll carry this injury for several more weeks. If I could switch with her, exchange bodies, take all her pains, I would. But since I can’t, I’m just thankful it wasn’t her other hand. I’m not happy with how much she’s been taxing herself in the studio, but I am glad she still has that outlet. Because if she couldn’t paint…she wouldn’t be Savannah.
“The sound was the worst part.” Her quiet voice makes me freeze. It’s soft, but not groggy. Like maybe she’s been awake this whole time. “Right before you got there.” Her fingertips press into my skin. “Right before you got there and stopped him, my wrist connected with the stairs, and I heard it before I felt it. It was this awful crunch sound, and I knew it was broken.”
I swallow, and lower my hand to the mattress, not wanting to accidentally hurt her more.
She continues. “When you reached for me…” My body tenses at her words. “Stop that,” she reprimands me gently, rubbing her hand in a small circle. “When you reached for me, it was my broken arm that was raised. I wasn’t scared of you, King. Even when we met, when I probably should’ve been scared of you, I don’t think I was.” My eyes stay on the top of her head. Wanting to see more of her, but grateful that she can’t see me. “And the part of me that wasn’t in the process of passing back out, thought that you’d probably lose your mind if you touched me, and I screamed in pain. So, I pulled away. In hindsight, I should’ve just let you feel bad for hurting me, rather than…all of this.”
Her words make sense.
And I want to believe her.
But… I don’t know if I do.
“Will you let me show you something?” Her question is quiet, and I can feel her bracing for my rejection.
I nod, and even though she can’t see me, she must feel my agreement.
My hands automatically go to her shoulders to help her sit up, so she doesn’t use her hand. And I realize that she’s wearing…my clothes.
The same outfit I dressed her in when I took her home from the hospital.
The rotten organ inside my chest squeezes.
I’ve spent two weeks convincing myself she hates me.
Is it possible…
Without further explanation, Savannah walks across the room, pressing her thumb to the lock pad. The door opens, and she leaves it that way as she walks out into the hall.
Whatever she wants to show me must be somewhere else.
I don’t know why my first thought was that she wanted to show me another injury. It’s not like I didn’t catalog every single scrape on her body when we were at the hospital.
Snatching a pair of sweatpants, matching the ones Savannah’s wearing, I hurry to drag them up my legs because whatever conversation we’re about to have feels like I should be wearing more than red silk boxers.
But since I feel like I’ve already taken too long, I don’t bother with a shirt.
By the time I make it into the hall, Savannah is already rounding the top of the stairs.
And my throat closes.
I sprint to catch up.
She shouldn’t be on the stairs by herself.
At the sound of my footsteps thundering behind her, Savannah stops halfway down the flight and turns to look up at me.
She’s standing in the middle of a step, twisted around.
“Dammit, Savannah!” I’m taking the steps three at a time to get to her, the thick carpet muffling the noise. “Hold the railing!”
She widens her eyes at me, like I’m being crazy.
“I mean it,” I snap. And when she smiles, I narrow my eyes. “I will tear the whole staircase out and replace it with an elevator. Don’t test me.”
Savannah rolls her eyes, “This carpet is so thick, I could fling myself off the top and land at the bottom without a bump.”
