Page 21 of Colt
He snorts, then lowers himself slowly, until the very end, where he loses some of his control and drops. “Fuck!”
“Well, I would’ve helped you,” I say.
“If I hadn’t torn open my fucking midsection on top of everything else, I would’ve been able to do it. It’s harder to control your body when you don’t have core muscles left intact.”
“Sorry.”
“Didyoutear me open with your horns?”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Then I don’t need you to apologize to me. So stop. And don’t look at me like you feel bad for me. You don’t even like me.”
“I don’t…dislike you.”
“You’d rather cut your finger and rub a lemon on it than hang out with me, and we both know it. So don’t go making sad puppy eyes at me now.”
I know it’s pain and frustration making him grumpy, but it galls me a little bit. I have been helping him. I’m not his enemy.
I’m also aware that he’s reacting from a place of raw emotion right now, so I can be sanguine about it if I choose to be. And I should choose to be.
It’s nearly three o’clock, and I should go home and cook. But the idea of leaving him even for a little bit gives me anxiety. I just don’t know if he’s going to fall somewhere weird and not be able to get up, or… Honestly, he quit taking his pain pills, and the pain of what he’s going through is severe enough that I wouldn’t be surprised if he moved the wrong way and lost consciousness. Yes, he’s healed up quite a bit since the incident first happened, but that’s not the same as being healed. Genuinely not.
“I’m just going to go get some things and cook over here.”
“Why?”
I grit my teeth. “So, you don’t die. Like you, dislike you or extreme indifference you, Colt, I don’t want you to die.”
“They discharged me from the hospital, so I don’t think I’m on death’s door.”
“I know, but it was also on the understanding that someone would be taking care of you, and I don’t feel good dumping you off and running. Usually I do a portion of spaghetti and then I freeze the rest, but I’ll just make a whole batch tonight and leave you with the leftovers.”
“A lot of times I just get takeout,” he says.
“You can have takeout if you want,” I say, looking at him closely.
“You can cook.”
I wonder if he’s scared at all. If anywhere inside of himself, he’s had the realization that it is possible for him to hurt himself worse. That he might not be able to just navigate things the way that he wants to. Or if he’s just being Colt about it. Hardheaded, stubborn, and completely sure that, for him, everything will work out just fine.
“I’ll be right back.”
When I go outside, close the door behind me, and start the short walk over to my place, I burst into tears. I don’t even try to question it.
Chapter Seven
Colt
The house is quiet, and I hate that I feel almost desperate for Allison to come back. I’m fine.
I’m fucking fine.
The hospital discharged me, after all. And maybe I don’t have the fine art of sitting while using crutches, but I’ll figure it out. I’m not fragile. A fall’s not going to break any more bones. Yeah, it might hurt. It’s guaranteed to hurt, but pain is just pain. It’s only a feeling.
I sit there, staring at the wall, remembering that moment when I fell off the bull. It’s been hazy, pretty fuzzy, not ultimately an entirely clear memory, but it is right now. I can feel the horn getting under the edge of my helmet, making contact with my forehead.
The slicing, searing pain.
