The problem is me.
My side is killing me.
Every step pulls at the stitches. Every breath feels like it has to pass through heat before it reaches my lungs. By the time I finish speaking with Andrew near the front approach and make my way back through the house, sweat has gathered beneath my shirt and along the back of my neck.
I keep my face still.
I keep my walk even.
No one needs to see it.
Unfortunately, half this family has turned noticing things into a competitive sport.
Vito passes me in the hall near the stairs and gives me one long look.
“You look like shit.”
“Good night to you, too.”
“You going to fall over?”
“No.”
“You know, Teresa has given me permission to physically stop you if needed,” he says a bit smugly.
“Try and you might end up with a matching hole,” I say.
I pause and look at him.
He looks back.
For one second, we have the kind of silent conversation men have when neither of them is interested in pretending the other one is harmless.
Then Cristiano makes a sleepy sound from down the hall, and Vito’s attention shifts.
That is all it takes to end the moment.
“Go to bed,” he says.
“I was on my way.”
He gives me another assessing look, then moves on.
I continue toward my room, slower once I’m sure he is not watching.
The second I get inside and close the door, I let the mask drop.
I brace one hand against the wall and close my eyes while pain rolls through my side in a hot, vicious wave.
“Damn it,” I whisper.
The room is dim, one lamp low beside the bed. Someone has been in here while I was gone. Fresh water on the nightstand. Clean towels folded on the chair. The medication bottles lined up.
I give in and head to them. But I make sure to limit myself to a fraction of the recommended dose. I refuse to be impaired in case anything happens, but I'm also completely useless in this much pain.
The wound throbs under the bandage, deep and steady, but the dressing is dry. That is something.
I need a shower.
