“Creek, it’s okay to?—”
“Please.” I forced the word out. “Please excuse me.”
He nodded as he let go of my hand, and I immediately grabbed my crutches and hobbled to the restroom as quickly as I could. Thank fuck, it was a single restroom, not one with stalls. I’d at least have some privacy. I could barely see through the tears in my eyes as I went in, locking the door behind me. What was wrong with me? Why was I so fucking emotional? Was it the kiss? Heath? Our conversation, which had turned so deep and serious all of a sudden?
That had been on me. I’d freaked out about forgetting for a moment that I was…
I looked down at my stump. So many words tumbled through my mind, each one worse than the other. Freak. Invalid. Broken.
Oh, I knew I wasn’t being fair to myself, that none of those words were ones I should use. But I was just so…
Angry.
I was goddamn furious. Again.
If only that asshole had done his job.
If only I had checked his work.
If only Bean, Tameron, and I had been a little farther away.
If only…
If only…
And then something snapped inside me, and I broke.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HEATH
I knew the moment he left for the restroom that something was wrong. I told myself to let him ride it out. God only knew how many times I’d needed to just fall apart without an audience, but when ten minutes went by, my gut told me it was time to check on him. He was in the restroom falling apart, or he was gone, having bailed on the date.
I didn’t know which one to hope for.
No, that wasn’t true—I did know. If he bailed on the date, thanks to his newly discovered bi-panic, it meant he wasn’t being torn apart from grief. Panic would subside. Grief was a far harder beast to lose.
My leg felt a little shaky as I made my way into the dark corridor, and then I came to a stop in front of the restroom door. The little indicator was turned to Occupied, so I took a breath, then knocked and waited.
There was no answer.
“Creek?” It felt strange to use his name, but I was starting to think maybe using his title was upsetting him. Maybe even triggering him, and that was the last thing I wanted. I knocked again. “Hey, just give me some sign of life.”
There was a small thud.
Great. He was in there, and it was option A. I could probably deal with that too.
“If you’re not shitting your brains out on the toilet, can you let me in?”
There was a long pause, then broken, rough laughter. After that, I heard another thud, and then the lock clicked. I gave it another moment, and then I pushed the door open and was grateful he’d at least turned the light on and wasn’t sitting in the dark.
He was sitting a few feet away on the floor, which was heinous because there were few nastier places than the men’s restroom in a bar. But even with the rank smell of beer-piss, I locked the door behind me and lowered to the ground at his side. He had one hand over his face, his prosthetic stretched out, and his other leg hitched up close to his body. His crutches were leaning against the sink.
“What can I do?”
He said nothing. He was shaking, and his cheeks were wet, and I recognized the spiral. It had been a while since I’d had one of my own, but the signs were all there. I twisted to face him a little better. Sitting cross-legged was hell on my hip, but I couldn’t bring myself to give a shit.
“Do you want me to call someone?”
