“Micah?” Apparently not.
I stilled. “Uh. Yeah?”
“I couldn’t find your ibuprofen. You think I could have some?”
“Course.” I went to the cupboard where I kept stuff like that—above the fridge. Putting stuff up high was one of those weird leftover things from growing up in a house with lots of kids. Pointless now, but something I still did.
I grabbed a bottle of water from my stockpile under the sink—no running water without power—snagged the ibuprofen, and went into my room.
13
Christa
Iswallowed the pills and sank back into the pillows with a grunt.
“How am I hurting so much?”
I expected him to ignore me and walk out, but his footsteps stopped. “Where?”
“Oh, God. Everywhere?”
He gave me ago onkind of look.
Slowly, one muscle at a time, I took inventory. “Neck. Kinda jammed on one side. Chest and ribs, all through here.”
“Seatbelt.” His eyes scanned me, from top to bottom, and I could only imagine what he was thinking. I’d been called all kinds of names in my life. Like, why did so many dudes feel obliged to lean out their car windows to inform me that I was fat? They were the jerks driving looking at me. I was just minding my own business. And then there were the compliments that weren’t. Just a couple weeks back, I’d been out with a friend when a bartender had leaned in, smarmy smile on his face and said, “I just love a confident big girl.” It hadn’t felt like flattery. Just a sharp little reminder that I wasn’t somehow normal, or therightsize. If he’d said it without the big, it would’ve been another story.
We didn’t even finish our drinks before leaving.
This guy, with his chiseled abs and unbelievable strength, who could climb freaking mountains despite a pretty extreme physical impairment, was probably wondering how I’d let myself go like this. But I hadn’t. This wasn’t me with a few extra pounds, this was—me. Period. From the time I’d hit puberty, I was just…round.
And I was fine with the way I looked. It was the jerks around me who had issues with it.
“Where else?”
I threw him a grumpy side-eye, and felt immediately contrite when I realized how hard I was breathing. Because, yeah, I’d just worked myself up over something he had nothing to do with. “Um.” I cleared my throat, embarrassed and more than a little freaked out at how easily I’d taken off into my head. “Upper back’s a mess.”
“Roll over.” The words were quiet; an order. They sliced through every one of my thoughts, landing me in this room, in this bed, alone with this man. “If you want.”
Our eyes met. His didn’t contain an ounce of the stupid crap people threw my way because oftheirrelationships withmybody. His face was placid, judgement-free, as if to say,You’re hurt. I can help you.
It calmed something in me, quieted the worries. I struggled onto my front.
He mumbled that he’d be right back and I lay there for a good thirty seconds.
When he returned, he stopped abruptly. “Oh, uh… Maybe you should…”
“Hm?”
“I forgot about your shirt.”
I craned my neck to look as he held up a tube of cream. Was he blushing? The guy who’d cradled me last night, while I sobbed in his arms? Naked?
“Oh, right. Can’t reach.”
He remained frozen.
“Hang on.” I was halfway up when his hand landed on my shoulder.
