“No.” I shake my head. “They’re my favorites.”
“Becklyn.” Lucky’s voice suddenly sounds gruff. “We need to get those off.”
“Lucky,” I whine. “Myfavoritepair. Do you know how long it takes to find the perfect pair of jeans? They’re like unicorns.”
“I’ll get you some new ones.”
“You can’t just go buy the perfect jeans, Lucky.”Ugh. Guys know nothing.Those skinny jeans have been a labor of love. They’re at just the right spot of not too soft, not too stiff. I’ve practically babied them to this point. Now, I’ll have to start all over with a new pair. “Fine,” I agree, because he’s right. The ankle of this pair is starting to cut into my skin. “In the top drawer of that desk.” I point to the desk closest to me.
Like it’s a scene from a horror movie, I watch as Lucky slides the edge of my scissors beneath the hem of my denim. It hurts, but not like the rest of the foot. Squeezing my eyes shut, I hear the sound of the scissors cutting through the fabric. A tearing sound. That’s when I open my eyes in time to see the jeans slip down over my swollen ankle.
“There.” He tosses the jeans to the floor, reaching over to set the scissors on top of my desk. “Now, let me take a closer look at this ankle.” His cool hand slips beneath my foot, the other one underneath my ankle. He lifts gently. “Can you move it?”
I hold my breath and grit my teeth as I first push down, then up. “Good.” He smiles at my foot. “It’s not broken.”
It sure feels broken.
“Here.” He places a plastic baggy filled with ice on top of my foot, causing me to shriek.
“A little warning,” I squeak. “Geesh.”
Lucky chuckles. “After I wrap this up loosely, you can go back to sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“One,” Deena grouses. “It’s tomorrow.”
I know why she’s saying that. She said he’d “come back tomorrow.” Which means she won the bet, which also means I’m going to need to find a place to sleep one night so she can have the room to herself.
“Whatever,” I grumble in my defeat.
“Mm-hm.”
Ugh. She sounds smug.
“There,” Lucky says, patting my knee. “That should help with the swelling.” Making eye contact, he gets this stern look on his face. “You need to take it easy tomorrow. Keep ice on it and elevated.”
“Yes, Doctor.” I giggle.
I suppose it’s not that funny. While Lucky isn’t a doctor, he is majoring in physical therapy. I don’t know exactly what he wants to do after he graduates this May, but whatever it is, it means he won’t be here at the U of I anymore. Half of me is scared he’s going to move away. Far away. Suddenly, I feel sad. It lasts only a minute, because I’m jolted back to the present when he states, “I’m serious, Becklyn. Stay off the ankle.”
“I will.”
“I’ll be gone all day tomorrow.” Deena sighs. “I won’t be able to get her the ice she needs.”
That’s total crap. She’ll be here. It’s Sunday. That’s her day to lie around and watch her reality television shows.
“Oh.” Lucky looks down at my foot. “Alright. I’ll take care of it.”
“No.” I shake him off. “Someone on the floor can get me more ice.” I place my hand on his. “Seriously, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
* * *
The minutehe’s out the door, I scowl at Deena. “You’re going to give me a little time to heal before you make me sleep outside, right?” I’m not joking. It’s a serious question.
