I let out a small, despairing laugh as I stare at my exposed toes. The water didn’t get in too much, but sand from a sandless beach has somehow found its way between my toes. To top it all off, an itch crawls up under my cast,and the urge to scratch is killing me.
The combination of it all makes me wonder—is this too soon?
Brandon draws back a few inches, noticing my hesitation.
“The cast doesn’t bother me,” he says quietly, even as he moves to sit beside me, something extinguishing in the air.
“It bothers me,” I admit, eyeing the heavy, rigid shell encasing my ankle.
“It’s alright,” he says. “We don’t have to.”
I bite my lip. “I want to.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I feel like a drowned rat in…this.” I glance down at my baggy grey track pants. The oversized grey T-shirt does nothing to elevate the look. “This wasn’t how I pictured…us.”
“Howdidyou picture us?” he asks playfully, arching a brow.
“That’s not the point,” I huff, smiling despite myself.
“I know.”
His expression shifts—heat giving way to something more tender.
“Lily,” he begins, brushing my cheek.
Whatever he was about to say is interrupted by my sharp hiss as an angry, knife-like pain stabs through me.
Brandon’s on his feet. “I’ll get the painkillers.”
“It’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth, willing it to be true. After eight weeks, my foot has no right to flare-up, especially not right at this moment. I thought I was done with painkillers.
The doctor warned this could happen. Inflammation. Cut nerves. Swelling. I nodded easily, believing I’d be the exception.
Brandon goes to the bathroom to fetch painkillers, and I’m quietly grateful, stifling a groan as the pain continues, the blade dulling just enough to be bearable.
“Here,” Brandon says, returning with pills and a glass of water.
I take them, and then there’s nothing to do but wait.
It’s not the first flare-up I’ve had, but it’s the first I’ve had in weeks—and of course it picks this moment to occur.
I release a steady breath, massaging my calf. Moisture squelches in my cast as I shift, so absurd I almost laugh.
Sexy.
I hope it doesn’t need replacing.
“I’m going to shower,” I announce, rummaging under the bed for thewaterproof cover for my foot. I didn’t wear it to the beach—it would never have survived the walk on the shingle, and I wasn’t about to interrupt Brandon while he wrapped my foot.
“Need a hand?” Brandon asks as I put on the cover.
“That’s okay. You know…” I begin, unable to help the gloomy sarcasm that slips out, “this is the part where you tell me how tempting I am.”
His tone drops low. “You could not be more tempting.”
I choke on a laugh. “I was joking.”
