I draw the sheets around me as cold air blows out of the vent on the wall directly above my head.
CJ’s smell is everywhere. On the pillow and the satin touching my skin. His summer meadow soap and that clean, masculine scent I took home with me after the weekend of the wedding.
I close my eyes.
More cold air blows out of the vent. My teeth chatter and a chill runs through me. I kick the covers off, swing my legs out of bed, and walk over to the suitcases I have yet to unpack.
I rifle through the one, looking for something with sleeves. When I flip open the lid of the second suitcase and stare at my collection of crop tops and frayed jean shorts, I give up and move to the dresser along the wall.
The bottom drawer holds what I’m looking for, and I slip on the light grey Ruxton Police Department hoodie with the word Tully in white screen-print on the back.
It’s soft and well-worn and the sleeves are stretched out and fraying.
I never want to take it off.
I draw the hood over my head and climb back into bed. I close my eyes.
And I don’t know if it’s because I’m in CJ’s house or in the bedroom I know is his, or if it’s because he’s all around me, in the sheets I’m tucking underneath my chin or the loved cotton against my cheek, but my mind goes back to that night at The Red Door. I can hear CJ calling out and I can feel Richard’s harsh grip on my arms as he drags me down the sidewalk. And then I’m being thrown to the ground and he’s there, CJ is right there, reaching out to me to make this better and to get me safe, and then he’s gone, and there’s shards of glass hitting me and people are screaming out.
I see him. He’s lying there with his eyes closed and blood and broken glass beneath him. And Richard is getting pulled away by police and he’s screaming at me, he’s calling me a bitch and telling me to help him, but I need to help CJ. I need to, because this is all my fault.
It’s my fault.
A sob catches in my throat as I press my cotton covered hand against my mouth. Again, I’m kicking the comforter off and swinging my legs out of bed, but instead of looking for more layers to keep warm with, I leave the bedroom I’m living in now and pad down the hallway to the other. I stand in the doorway.
CJ is lying on his side facing away from me. The moonlight is shining through the window. I can see him. He’s shirtless and the sheet is gathered at his waist, and I don’t make a sound but he hears me and turns his head, peering at me over his shoulder.
I don’t know if I woke him or if he’s having the same nightmares as me. I don’t ask either.
He motions with his head for me to enter the room. I round the bed and crawl under the cool sheet, sliding closer until I can bury my face in his chest and get his arms around me.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I cry, feeling my tears slide down my cheek and press into the skin above his heart.
CJ’s arms tighten around me. He ducks his head close to mine and soothes me with his hand moving up and down my back. He doesn’t say a word.
He holds me, and allows me to say mine.
And when I finally fall asleep a hundred apologies later, the nightmare doesn’t follow.
I WAKE UP with Riley curled against my side, not wrapping herself around me like the last time we slept together but still pressing close.
Her head is on the pillow I gave her. Her hands are sleeve covered and shielding her mouth. She’s breathing slowly and evenly. She looks peaceful.
Finally. Took hours of crying to get her here.
Riley came to my room needing to apologize. I got that. She was feeling that blame and had been feeling it. I saw it in her eyes at the hospital. Saw it again standing in my living room with her, and if she didn’t give me her sorry and get that shit off her chest, it would eat away at her. She’d let that guilt tear her down. She’d keep it between us.
Fuck that. I didn’t want that. I don’t want anything between us.
That’s the only reason I keep my mouth shut and let Riley do what she needed to do.
I sure as fuck don’t want any apology from her. I don’t blame her for what happened that night. Not for any part of it. And I don’t want to see her crying—makes me want to go pay that cocksucker ex of hers a visit and pull his limbs off—but if it gets Riley past her guilt and allows us to move forward, fuck it. I’ll lay here, hold her, and take it.
And that’s exactly what I do.
Slept for shit `cause I kept waking up needing to make sure she wasn’t shedding tears again. My leg was killing me too. I could’ve used more of my pain meds, but I didn’t want to move and risk waking Riley.
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.