What I Need
Page 36
She didn’t pass out until late. I have no idea what time, but she probably would’ve kept going if her body hadn’t exhausted on her.
Thank fuck it did.
Riley needs sleep. I know she has a test in class today. She shared that with me last night when I asked why she was flipping through flashcards while we were eating dinner.
She looked nervous about it and said it was worth a huge chunk of her grade so yeah, she needs sleep.
And I need to quit looking at her and go get some fucking coffee.
After scrubbing at my face with both hands, I roll to my side and push up, swinging my legs over and sitting on the edge of the bed. I glance down at my wrapped ankle.
My left leg feels heavier than my right. It feels that way all the time. Not just when I move it. There’s a constant dull ache running up my calf, worse now since I’ve gone all night without any pain meds. It hurts, but I can tolerate it. The Percocet they prescribed does its job, numbs it out for a while, but it also gives me that fucked up, foggy-head feeling. I don’t like taking it during the day. I don't like feeling out of it. Maybe I’ll save them up for when I start PT in a couple of weeks. I know that’s going to suck. Not just `cause I’ll be working my injury for the first time, but also `cause I know I’m going to be pushing myself.
No way am I staying laid up for five months.
I’ve always recovered quickly from injuries before. I broke my shoulder, ribs, and clavicle playing football growing up. Healed up faster than the doctors were expecting with those. And I know this won’t be any different.
I’m motivated. I can’t stand this laying around shit. I need to get back to work.
After pulling on the white t-shirt I discarded at the foot of the bed last night, I reach for my crutches propped against the wall and use them to help me stand. Then keeping my foot up, I maneuver out of the bedroom and head down the hallway.
I can’t put any weight on my left foot yet. Hurts like a motherfucker if I do—I found that out yesterday. But the second I’m able to, I’m ditching these crutches. They're a pain in the ass to use and I don’t like needing something to help me get around.
I already got plans for them too. I figure they’ll make good burning wood once I take off the rubber stoppers at the bottom and the padding around the handles.
I power on the Keurig and get my coffee made once I make it to the kitchen, then bracing against the counter for balance, I grab the box of Raisin Bran from on top of the fridge and go about pouring myself a bowl.
Back pressing to the hard edge of the granite, I stand in the kitchen and eat my breakfast, doing this while looking out into the living room.
My eyes cut to the notebooks Riley left out last night. They’re sitting on the lip of the counter where the bar stools are pulled up. A few papers are scattered there too.
Ditching a crutch and keeping hold of my bowl, I hobble over to the sink and lean over it to look at the papers. One in particular grabs my attention: Riley’s schedule. I glance it over while I shovel cereal into my mouth.
She has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mostly in the morning and ending just after one, unless she has labs. Clinical eats up her time the rest of the week.
Good to know.
I’m scraping cereal off the bottom of my bowl when quiet footsteps cause me to turn my head.
Riley steps into the room and stops a few feet away, hood still up and one eye peering at me. She digs a sleeve covered knuckle into the other and offers me a sleepy, “Hey”.
I lower my bowl and look at her, at the hoodie of mine she’s swimming in and her black painted toes peeking out from underneath her pajamas. Goddamn. She looks good waking up in my house.
Really fucking good.
“Mornin’,” I greet her, straightening up. I watch her brow pull tight after she lowers her hand. “What?”
“Why are you up? You should be off your feet,” she says, raising a hand to point at my leg.
“Man’s gotta eat, babe. I was hungry,” I tell her. I lift my bowl to show her my evidence. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to stand around a little. Why the fuck else would they give me crutches?”
“I could’ve made you breakfast,” she informs me. “You should’ve gotten me up.”
“Make me breakfast now.”
Riley looks from the bowl in my hand to my face again. She tilts her head. “But, you ate, didn’t you?” she questions. “Isn’t that bowl empty?”
I flash her a smile. “Yeah, it’s empty. But I typically polish off half a box before I get going every morning. This was just my first bowl.”
Her eyes go round. “You eat a half a box of cereal every morning? Really?” she asks, sounding and looking shocked.
“You see how big I am? Fuck yeah, I eat half a box of cereal every morning. Sometimes more.” I go to set my bowl in the sink, but hesitate, looking back to her and asking, “Are you going to make me something or should I pour myself another?”
Riley blinks, lets her eyes fall to my bicep and hold there for a breath, then looks back into my face. Reaching up, she pushes her hood back and starts walking toward me.
“Eggs okay?” she asks.
Hell yeah. She’s making me something.
“Fuckin’ A,” I answer, freeing my hands up and then moving out of the kitchen to give her some space. I get around the counter and claim a stool, leaning my crutch against the seat beside me. Riley carries over the other I had propped against the stove and my coffee after she spots it. She hands them over. “Appreciate it, darlin’,” I say before taking a sip.
Her cheeks pink up. She pulls in a breath through her nose and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Right. Eggs,” she says, clapping her hands together. “You want sunny-side up or over easy?”
“Scrambled off the table?”
Her lips press together. “Mm, I’ve been told my scrambled needs work,” she informs me, lifting her shoulder. “I always overcook them.”
She looks a little uneasy sharing that, and I have a feeling it’s not because of what she’s sharing but rather who had that opinion and gave it to her.
I set my cup down and keep my hands around it, watching her gaze fall.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
She lifts her eyes.
“Anything you feel like making me, I’m going to eat,” I begin to share, keeping hold of her gaze. “I'm going to appreciate you for making it, no matter what it is, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell you it needs work. The fact that you’re making it means I don’t have to. That’s not lost on me. So if you’re feeling scrambled right now `cause that’s what you prefer making and fuck anyone who says you can’t do it right, have at it, babe. If you set it in front of me, I’ll eat it. I’ll enjoy every fucking bite too.”
Thank fuck it did.
Riley needs sleep. I know she has a test in class today. She shared that with me last night when I asked why she was flipping through flashcards while we were eating dinner.
She looked nervous about it and said it was worth a huge chunk of her grade so yeah, she needs sleep.
And I need to quit looking at her and go get some fucking coffee.
After scrubbing at my face with both hands, I roll to my side and push up, swinging my legs over and sitting on the edge of the bed. I glance down at my wrapped ankle.
My left leg feels heavier than my right. It feels that way all the time. Not just when I move it. There’s a constant dull ache running up my calf, worse now since I’ve gone all night without any pain meds. It hurts, but I can tolerate it. The Percocet they prescribed does its job, numbs it out for a while, but it also gives me that fucked up, foggy-head feeling. I don’t like taking it during the day. I don't like feeling out of it. Maybe I’ll save them up for when I start PT in a couple of weeks. I know that’s going to suck. Not just `cause I’ll be working my injury for the first time, but also `cause I know I’m going to be pushing myself.
No way am I staying laid up for five months.
I’ve always recovered quickly from injuries before. I broke my shoulder, ribs, and clavicle playing football growing up. Healed up faster than the doctors were expecting with those. And I know this won’t be any different.
I’m motivated. I can’t stand this laying around shit. I need to get back to work.
After pulling on the white t-shirt I discarded at the foot of the bed last night, I reach for my crutches propped against the wall and use them to help me stand. Then keeping my foot up, I maneuver out of the bedroom and head down the hallway.
I can’t put any weight on my left foot yet. Hurts like a motherfucker if I do—I found that out yesterday. But the second I’m able to, I’m ditching these crutches. They're a pain in the ass to use and I don’t like needing something to help me get around.
I already got plans for them too. I figure they’ll make good burning wood once I take off the rubber stoppers at the bottom and the padding around the handles.
I power on the Keurig and get my coffee made once I make it to the kitchen, then bracing against the counter for balance, I grab the box of Raisin Bran from on top of the fridge and go about pouring myself a bowl.
Back pressing to the hard edge of the granite, I stand in the kitchen and eat my breakfast, doing this while looking out into the living room.
My eyes cut to the notebooks Riley left out last night. They’re sitting on the lip of the counter where the bar stools are pulled up. A few papers are scattered there too.
Ditching a crutch and keeping hold of my bowl, I hobble over to the sink and lean over it to look at the papers. One in particular grabs my attention: Riley’s schedule. I glance it over while I shovel cereal into my mouth.
She has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mostly in the morning and ending just after one, unless she has labs. Clinical eats up her time the rest of the week.
Good to know.
I’m scraping cereal off the bottom of my bowl when quiet footsteps cause me to turn my head.
Riley steps into the room and stops a few feet away, hood still up and one eye peering at me. She digs a sleeve covered knuckle into the other and offers me a sleepy, “Hey”.
I lower my bowl and look at her, at the hoodie of mine she’s swimming in and her black painted toes peeking out from underneath her pajamas. Goddamn. She looks good waking up in my house.
Really fucking good.
“Mornin’,” I greet her, straightening up. I watch her brow pull tight after she lowers her hand. “What?”
“Why are you up? You should be off your feet,” she says, raising a hand to point at my leg.
“Man’s gotta eat, babe. I was hungry,” I tell her. I lift my bowl to show her my evidence. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to stand around a little. Why the fuck else would they give me crutches?”
“I could’ve made you breakfast,” she informs me. “You should’ve gotten me up.”
“Make me breakfast now.”
Riley looks from the bowl in my hand to my face again. She tilts her head. “But, you ate, didn’t you?” she questions. “Isn’t that bowl empty?”
I flash her a smile. “Yeah, it’s empty. But I typically polish off half a box before I get going every morning. This was just my first bowl.”
Her eyes go round. “You eat a half a box of cereal every morning? Really?” she asks, sounding and looking shocked.
“You see how big I am? Fuck yeah, I eat half a box of cereal every morning. Sometimes more.” I go to set my bowl in the sink, but hesitate, looking back to her and asking, “Are you going to make me something or should I pour myself another?”
Riley blinks, lets her eyes fall to my bicep and hold there for a breath, then looks back into my face. Reaching up, she pushes her hood back and starts walking toward me.
“Eggs okay?” she asks.
Hell yeah. She’s making me something.
“Fuckin’ A,” I answer, freeing my hands up and then moving out of the kitchen to give her some space. I get around the counter and claim a stool, leaning my crutch against the seat beside me. Riley carries over the other I had propped against the stove and my coffee after she spots it. She hands them over. “Appreciate it, darlin’,” I say before taking a sip.
Her cheeks pink up. She pulls in a breath through her nose and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Right. Eggs,” she says, clapping her hands together. “You want sunny-side up or over easy?”
“Scrambled off the table?”
Her lips press together. “Mm, I’ve been told my scrambled needs work,” she informs me, lifting her shoulder. “I always overcook them.”
She looks a little uneasy sharing that, and I have a feeling it’s not because of what she’s sharing but rather who had that opinion and gave it to her.
I set my cup down and keep my hands around it, watching her gaze fall.
“Look at me,” I tell her.
She lifts her eyes.
“Anything you feel like making me, I’m going to eat,” I begin to share, keeping hold of her gaze. “I'm going to appreciate you for making it, no matter what it is, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell you it needs work. The fact that you’re making it means I don’t have to. That’s not lost on me. So if you’re feeling scrambled right now `cause that’s what you prefer making and fuck anyone who says you can’t do it right, have at it, babe. If you set it in front of me, I’ll eat it. I’ll enjoy every fucking bite too.”
