“I mean, it’s how I usually sleep, but if you don’t have one it’s fine,” he says, adding a bit of mopiness for dramatic effect. “I’ll manage.”
“Top shelf in the closet, princess,” I jest, giggling. “Can you grab it, or do you need me to fetch it for you?”
He chuckles loudly, throwing the covers off of him. “Is three that big of a deal?” he asks, padding across the room toward my closet.
“I barely need one, let alone three. It’s a little extra.”
“What does barely one mean?” He disappears into my closet. “It’s dark as shit in here? Which side?”
“Top left. Behind the door.” I pause. “I usually push the pillow I’m using out of the way and just sleep on the mattress.”
“You don’t sleep with a pillow?”
There’s a crash, and I hear him curse under his breath.
“You good in there?” I yell, sitting up.
“Fine. Just knocked some shoes down.”
There’s another pause.
“I do sleep with one, just not the whole night.”
“How did I not know this about you?” he asks, walking back into the room, holding a pillow.
“We never actually made it to the sleeping portion of the night.”
“I guess not.” He rolls his shoulder and shakes his arm. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I think the pain meds are finally wearing off. When I reached up to get the pillow, a sharp pain shot down my arm, and now I can’t seem to shake it.”
He tosses the pillow into the bed and then rubs the opposite hand over the injured joint as he walks the last few steps.
“Probably shouldn’t have lifted me like you did earlier. I’m sorry.”
“You gotta stop apologizing.” He pauses before climbing on top of the mattress. “Do you have any ibuprofen?”
“In my purse. Near the front door.”
I watch him walk back into the dark living room. Apologizing has always been a habit I couldn’t break. I’m not sure why it pops out without a second thought; it just always has. Probably some pathetic tendency to want to make everyone around me comfortable.
“You mind if I get it out myself?” he asks, returning and holding my purse up in the air.
“Go ahead. Promise there’s nothing exciting in there.”
Chuckling, he opens the zipper and begins to walk towards me but trips on one of my boots in the middle of the floor and sends the bag into the air. “Fuck,” he yells, catching his balance as the sound of all of my belongings scattering across the wood floor fills my room.
“You okay?”
“Shit, yeah,” he says. “I’m sorry. Can you hand me my phone?”
“It’s fine.” I climb out of bed with both of our cell phones. “Here, let me help you.”
Turning on the flashlights, we begin picking up the contents and place it all back in my bag. After a moment, he pauses. I flash the light in his direction to find his lips curved upward. “Are these…trading cards?” he asks, gesturing to the three cards strewn across the floor.
Oh, fuck.
