And yes, I meanescape.
Ziggy’s hugging her body, staying to the other side of the kitchen, as far from me as she can get.
Jessica’s not making any attempts to be a vicious guard dog who wants me to believe she’d take out my good foot.
She’s hovering at Ziggy’s side as they slip out the door.
Dammit.
Dammit.
I haven’t had enough sleep or pain meds to deal with this yet.
Did it to yourself, dude, I hear Caden say in my head.Go tell her you’re sorry.
Great idea.
Right idea.
And I’m too damn pissed to muster up thesorrypart of my personality.
Instead, I finish my banana, drop the peel on the counter, swing myself to the refrigerator, pull out the leftover mashedpotatoes, set them on the counter too, and then push them around to the microwave.
Crutch-swing-push.
Crutch-swing-push.
Crutch-swing-push.
See?
I can cook for myself.
I shove the container into the microwave and hit the button for two minutes.
Do I want mashed potatoes?
No.
But they look like the easiest thing to reheat without using Princess Potato’s beloved air fryer.
Yep.
Still in a mood.
I grunt to myself and head to the sink.
Thirsty.
Want water.
I’m bent over the sink, sucking water straight from the tap, balancing on one leg, when I hear the back door shut again.
And there’s Ziggy.
Hovering just inside the kitchen.
Alone.
