Opening the front gate—white picket, because of course Sophie would have a white picket fence—I start to head for the exterior stairs that will take me up to the apartment that’s my new home, but Sophie appears in the kitchen window. Her face lights up when she sees me through the steam on the glass. She waves me in with that enthusiastic arm motion that says refusing isn’t an option.
I hesitate, shifting my weight to ease the throb of pain radiating up my forearm. I really don’t feel like being around anyone right now, but I can’t be a bad guest. Especially not on Christmas. They welcomed me into their home for all the present opening and coffee drinking hubbub this morning, and I really am grateful for it. As much as I don’t want to be with my family, I also don’t want to be a complete hermit. So I knock the snow off my running shoes against the doorframe—three sharp raps—and let myself in through the front door.
The warmth hits me immediately—not just from the heating, but from the house itself. Garland wrapped around the banister with tiny white lights. Tree in the corner next to the brick fireplace, in front of the big picture window showcasing the layers of white fluff outside.
“How was your run?” Sophie’s at the counter, her knife moving in steady rhythm through vegetables. Carrots, celery, onions—the holy trinity of pot roast, which explains the rich smell coming from the oven.
“Good.” Pain lances through my wrist like someone’s twisting a knife between the bones. My fingers curl involuntarily, and the wince escapes before I can catch it.
Her knife pauses mid-chop, hovering over a half-sliced carrot. “You doing okay?”
Yeah.” I use my shirt to wipe sweat from my face. “Want some help with dinner? I’ll go shower and then?—”
“Is your wrist bothering you?”
I stiffen slightly, ready to defend myself against whatever she might say next. “It happens sometimes in the cold.”
“Oliver.” She sets the knife down with a deliberate click against the cutting board. Are you sure running in this temperature is a good idea? The cold can be hell on joint pain.”
“I don’t have joint pain,” I say through clenched teeth, the words coming out sharper than intended. “It’s just a broken wrist.”Except it’s not broken.It’s shattered.
The kitchen goes quiet except for the cider bubbling on the stove, little volcanic pops of cinnamon-scented steam.
Instantly, I regret the words, which came out as a snap. Sophie and Niall are nothing but great friends. They’re even renting me their garage apartment at half of what they could get for it, and they’ve welcomed me into their home on Christmas. Now here I am, being a Grade A asshole.
“I’m sorry.” I rake my fingers through my hair.
“It’s okay.” She reaches out and gently lays her hand on my shoulder, then moves to the drawer at the end of the counter.
“It’s not.” I shake my head, swallow against a burning lump in my throat.
Sophie smiles kindly, not taking offense at my tone. She just opens the medicine drawer and takes out a bottle of Tylenol. “Here. And before you argue, remember that taking care of yourself isn’t giving up. It’s giving yourself a chance to heal.”
I stare at the extended bottle for a long moment before reaching out to take it. The red and white label might as well be a white flag of surrender. “Thank you.”
“You’re not going to take any, are you?” Her head tilts, studying me with quiet regard, knowing I’m being stubborn about something that shouldn’t matter.
“I… don’t like to dumb down my body’s signals.”
“That’s the only reason?” She opens the spice cabinet and shoots me a gentle look. “Because I don’t think it’s about dulling signals. What’s really stopping you?”
The question hangs between us. What else would it be?
Glancing down at the bottle in my hand, I suddenly hear Dad’s voice: “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”
My parents have always been the same way. Growing up, we didn’t take painkillers unless we were in the emergency room with a visible bone break, waiting to see the doctor. Anything else and you were soft. Dad played college football with a separated shoulder for half a season. Mom delivered my youngestbrother with no epidural and mentioned it every birthday. Toughness was currency in our house.
I close my eyes.Shit.
Is that why I really don’t want to take the Tylenol? Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m still trying to prove something to people who aren’t even here?
“Your body’s been screaming at you for two years, hon.” Sophie’s voice is kind but firm. “Maybe it’s time to give it some relief instead of punishment.”
The truth of it hits like a check into the boards. Crossing the kitchen, I pour water from her pitcher—lemon slices floating like tiny suns—and swallow two pills. The bitterness on my tongue has nothing to do with the medicine.
“Sorry I’m being a pain in the ass.”
“You’re not. You’re grieving.” She says it matter-of-factly, without pity, while returning to her vegetables. “Niall went through the same thing when he had to leave consulting. Different reasons, same loss. Having you here has been good for him. He needs someone around who gets it.”
