Page 20 of The Road to You
There’s rustling as she sits up, her silhouette outlined by the dim moonlight filtering through the window. “What’s happening with your leg?”
“It hurts. A lot,” I manage, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
She mutters something under her breath before fumbling to turn on the bedside lamp. The soft glow spills over us, and I see the horror in her face as her gaze drops to my leg.
The muscles are locked in a tight spasm, the scar standing out stark against my skin. I know it looks bad. I can feel how bad it is.
“What do I do? How can I help?” Her voice is small but steady.
“In the front pocket of my bag, there are painkillers. Can you grab them?”
She doesn’t hesitate. In a blur, she’s out of bed, rummaging through my bag. A moment later, she’s back with the pills, a glass of water in her other hand. I toss back the medication, swallowing it down, then hand her the empty glass.
“Thank you,” I whisper through clenched teeth.
“Is there something else I can do?” She’s searching my face, looking for an answer I’m not sure I can give. This is my life, and I feel exposed letting her in when I’m so vulnerable. I’ve seen enough pity in everyone’s eyes since the accident not to want to witness it on her face too.
I shake my head. “Not much. I just need the pills to do their job.”
She frowns, unconvinced. “What if I try to massage the muscle? Stretch your leg?”
I hesitate. The pain is unbearable, but the thought of her hands on me, of her touch being the thing that helps, makes my breath catch in a silent gasp. She is worried, not pitying me, and this loosens my uncertainty a bit.
“It can’t be worse than this,” I admit.
She kneels beside me. Her touch is tentative at first, her fingers pressing gently into my calf. It hurts like hell. I suck in asharp breath, but she doesn’t stop. Slowly, carefully, she works through the tension, her hands moving with more confidence as she kneads out the knots. The pain shifts from unbearable to something I can breathe through, and eventually, she manages to stretch my leg out, letting it rest on the bed.
The worst of it passes, leaving behind the dull ache I’ve learned to live with. I exhale, my body sagging into the mattress.
Lena watches me. Her brows are pinched, and worry is still etched across her features.
“I’ll be fine,” I murmur, giving her a tired smile. “It’s already way better than before.”
She nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. There’s a question in her eyes, one I know she won’t hold back for long.
“Go ahead,” I say, preempting her. “Ask.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod.
She hesitates for only a second before speaking. “What happened to your leg?”
“Motorcycle accident,” I say simply. “Got crushed between two cars. My leg took the worst of it.”
“Jesus Christ.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
I shrug. “Lucky to still have my leg. Injuries like this usually end in amputation.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and I see the weight of my words settle over her. She looks almost terrified at the idea, and the sight softens something in my chest. Gone is the carefree Lena I’ve gotten used to lately, and I don’t know how to feel about her worry. I’ve learned to deal with pity, but I still have a hard time reassuring people.
“When did it happen?”
“Six months ago. I was driving to my parents’ place, and some idiot ran a red light, pinning me against another car.”
She exhales deeply. “Is that why you’re ‘in between jobs’?”
I know this bothers her, but I’m grateful she didn’t press until now. I’m still not ready to lay out the whole truth for her, but I can give her something.
