THIRTY-THREE
WES
Austin gotme as far as the truck before my self-respect finally crawled out of whatever hole it had been hiding in.
The prosthetic was back on, liner hastily adjusted, pain still snarling around the stump. Every step across the packed gravel lot felt wrong, the angle off, the rhythm shot to hell. Austin stayed glued to my side, one hand light on my elbow like he was trying to offer support without making it obvious.
“Last chance,” he said when we reached the driver’s side, breath puffing in the cold. “I can drive you. Swing back and grab my truck later.”
“I’ve got it.” My voice came out thinner than I wanted.
His mouth pressed into a line. “You don’t look like you’ve got it.”
“Then lie to me and say I do,” I muttered, popping the door. The movement tugged something ugly in my thigh, but I swallowed it down.
He didn’t move away. “Text me when you’re home, yeah?”
I hauled myself up into the driver’s seat, jaw clenched, every muscle screaming for me to pretend this was no big deal. The door shut with more force than necessary, cutting off the winterlight and the sight of Austin standing there, worry all over his face before he turned and returned to work.
Silence snapped into place.
I just sat there, both hands braced on the wheel, heart racing like I’d sprinted a mile. The truck cab felt too small, air thick and stale. My leg throbbed in brutal pulses, each one sending a spike of static up through my hip and along my spine.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Nothing listened.
My hands were shaking with a traitorous tremble in my fingers as they tightened on the leather.
“Stop,” I whispered, to myself or my nerves or the whole damn situation, I didn’t know.
The sting behind my eyes hit without warning. One second I was gritting my teeth, the next my vision blurred at the edges, heat burning up from somewhere deep in my chest.
Not here.
You do not cry in the truck like a goddamn kid.
I sucked in a breath that scraped my throat raw and blinked hard, willing it back. A hot tear escaped anyway, tracking down over skin that had gone too cold.
“Fuck,” I bit out, swiping it away with the heel of my hand. The movement jolted my leg and pain flared. Another tear slid free, then another, like my body had decided to double down just to spite me.
I bowed my head until my forehead hit the steering wheel, breath sawing in and out of my lungs, shoulders tight enough that it hurt to breathe.
You thought you were back, didn’t you?
The thought came fast and vicious.
You thought you were that guy again. Boss man. Walking the site. Climbing stairs like it was nothing.
I saw them in my head, crystal clear: the crew crowding the landing, hands under my arms, someone grabbing the metal, the careful way they’d eased me down like I was a crate of glass. Austin’s voice talking too calmly, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.
They had to peel you off the floor.
They had to take your leg off in front of everyone because you were deadweight with it on.
I squeezed my eyes shut. The image of my prosthetic being handed down the stairs like a misplaced tool turned my stomach. Faulty equipment. Boss’s leg is busted, toss it to the side.
A humorless laugh scraped out of me, more breath than sound.
