I cannot.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
My hand moves toward the gun on the nightstand before my brain finishes identifying the sound.
“Adrian?” Teresa’s voice comes through, low. “It’s me.”
I let my hand fall away from the weapon. “Come in.”
The door opens a few inches, then wider. Teresa steps inside with a mug of coffee in one hand and a look on her face that tells me she has already decided she dislikes whatever she’s seeing. Her hair is pulled back, face clean of makeup, eyes tired.
Her gaze drops to the bandage, then to my face.
“You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you, too.”
She shuts the door behind her with her foot and crosses to the bed. “You didn’t sleep.”
“I slept.”
“No, you didn’t.” She sets the coffee on the nightstand, then looks at the pill bottles. Neither has moved. Her mouth tightens. “You also didn’t take anything.”
“I’m managing.”
“I hate that word from you.”
“Managing?”
“It always means you’re being stupid. But it sounds fancier.” She folds her arms.
Despite myself, my mouth curves.
She notices. “There. A sign of life.”
“Are you here to check on me or insult me?”
“Both. I’m versatile.”
That sounds like Teresa. Ruthlessly controlled because she knows panic doesn’t help anyone. She reaches for the edge of the blanket.
I catch her wrist before she can lift it.
She looks at my hand, then at me.
“I’m checking the bandage.”
“I can check it.”
“You can barely sit up without looking like you’re seeing God.”
“I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrow. “Let go.”
I let go.
There are battles worth fighting and battles that end with Teresa calling my mother and telling her I've been shot. I have some sense of self-preservation.
