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She was beat up on this job.
-Is she okay?
She’s okay, but it’s rough. I’ll update you later.
I made my way back to the bedroom to find her sitting up against the headboard, a hand to her throat, a far-away, tortured look in her eyes.
“If this goes down like glass, I can make you something warm instead,” I told her, handing her the Big Gulp as I kicked out of my shoes, and made my way around the bed.
“What are you doing?” she asked, wincing again with the effort to speak.
“Getting in bed with you,” I told her, doing just that as she took a sip of her drink, paused, then took another.
“Why?”
“Because you need someone, but you’re such a fucking stubborn ass that you won’t admit that. So I am just going to sit here and be there for you until are ready to talk. Does that TV work?” I asked, pointing across the room to her black dresser with its black, oversized frame.
Deciding not to fight me, because whether she liked it or not, she did need someone.
So she reached over for the remote. The twisting had her taking a sharp intake of breath.
There were other injuries.
I wanted to see them all, to tell her if she needed to go see someone. Maybe Seeley’s girl, Ama, if she wouldn’t go to a hospital. But I needed to go slow with her.
“Thanks,” I said, tone calm, turning on the TV and flicking through the channels, settling on a sitcom that was light and easy, hoping it would break up the heavy mood in the room.
“I’m fine,” she insisted again, and I was wondering if she was trying to convince me or herself.
“Of course you are,” I agreed, nodding.
She might have been beat down and bruised, but this was Rynn. She was okay. Or she would be after she healed up.
“I had a job,” she told me what felt like an eternity later. “It… didn’t go how I planned. And I planned a lot,” she said, then was silent for a minute, sipping the drink.
I had been choked out once in my life. And I distinctly remembered the next day, how swallowing my spit was torture, let alone speaking.
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much you plan, or how good you are. Shit just goes sideways.”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding, eyes far off for a moment, then shaking her head like she was trying to break the thoughts free.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked.
“Okay.”
“Did you treat those cuts?” I asked, waving toward her legs.
“Yes.”
“Can I treat them again?” I asked. “They’re looking a little puffy.”
“I can—“ she started.
“Hey, I asked if I could,” I repeated.
“Okay,” she relented.
“In the primary bathroom or the hall one?” I asked, pointing each way.
