Chapter Eleven
There we were again, in his truck. I was still staring out the window, though this time my swollen ankle was bandaged, and a pair of crutches rested next to me. A second-degree sprain. I sighed internally. Thankfully it wasn’t broken, but I was looking at a ten to thirty-day recovery period. I had no time for this. I was told to keep as much weight off it as possible and elevate it when I could.
To make matters worse, I didn’t have a car, not that I could have driven all that well since it was my right foot. I would have tried, though. Lola had had her revenge. I would be getting a major workout walking on crutches to campus. My armpits already ached thinking about it. I had survived a lot worse, I reminded myself.
“You doing okay over there?” Porter, who hadn’t left my side all day, brought me out of my thoughts.
I stared out into the fading light of day. My entire day had been wasted and spent with the one person I decidedly didn’t want to spend my day with. If I was being honest, though, it was nice not to be alone through the ordeal. The last—and first—time I was in urgent care, I had some awful virus that made it so I couldn’t keep anything down. I became dehydrated and lethargic to the point I dragged myself to the hospital and they kept me overnight. Not one person missed me or even knew where I was.
Today though . . . I turned toward Porter. He was there to hold my hand when the doctor tortured me by examining my ankle. I’m pretty sure he paid my hefty copay too. That, I wasn’t happy about, but when I checked out, I was told there was nothing to pay. When I questioned the woman over and over about it, I noticed the covert glance she gave Porter. I suppose it wasn’t entirely covert since I noticed.
Porter glanced my way and smiled. “Is that a no, you aren’t okay?”
“Never better.” I faced forward.
“Do you want to grab something to eat? You must be hungry.”
I shook my head. “I’m tired and I have some research to do tonight.”
“Understandable.” He began to hum along with the tune on the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “Holland,” he sounded nervous.
“Yes?”
“I talked to Natalie about your injury when you were back in x-ray. And . . . well . . .”
I faced him, not sure why he was acting nervous all of a sudden.
“She brought up a good point . . .”
“And what would that be?”
“You live on the third floor.”
“Yes . . .”
“How do you plan on getting up and down the stairs in your condition?”
“I’ll use the crutches or hop.”
“How are you going to get to school without a car?”
“That’s what the crutches are for?” Why was this a question?
His head jerked my way. “How far is campus?”
“Around a mile.”
“What about public transportation?”
My nose crinkled. “I avoid it at all costs; besides, it doesn’t always run as early as I need it to in the mornings.”
“How early do you leave?”
“Sometimes before six.”
“In the morning?” I couldn’t tell if he thought I was crazy or if he was upset.
“Of course in the morning. I get a lot more done in the lab when I’m there by myself.”
He shook his head. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Does this all have a point?”
His chest rose and fell in a dramatic fashion. “Natalie thinks, and I agree, you should come stay with us until your ankle’s healed. We can drive you back and forth to school.”
The crazy weekend I’d had, combined with exhaustion and the insane idea that came out of his mouth made me laugh. The kind of laugh that had me holding onto my middle. I hadn’t laughed like that in, well . . . since . . . since him.
“You’re kidding, right?”
He stopped at a red light a few blocks from my apartment, allowing him to focus on me. A pained expression marked his handsome features. “Holland, I’m being serious. You heard the doctor, if you don’t stay off that foot, you could cause irreparable damage or even an infection.”
“I have every intention of staying off it.” I was well aware of how a body worked.
“Your current situation is going to make that difficult.”
“Difficult, but not impossible.” I may have smirked. I wasn’t sure I had ever really done that before. I kind of liked it.
He threw his hands up. “Why do you have to be so obstinate?”
I turned from him and folded my arms. “I’m not. I just do what I have to do to make it work.”
“Hey,” his tone softened. He rested his warm hand on my bare shoulder. “We only want to help.”
From the corner of my eye I looked at his strong hand resting on my shoulder. My shoulder twitched as if to say, times up. “I appreciate that, but really, I can handle this.”
He reluctantly dropped his hand, frustrated, by the sound of his sigh. “Do you at least have a friend you can call to pick you up?”
Admitting the truth to him was more than I could handle. I didn’t want him to know how truly alone I was, even if it was by choice. “My P.I. might be able to give me a ride home in the evenings.” Which meant I would have to leave on time. I suppose it wouldn’t kill me.
“You have a private investigator?”
I grinned. “Principal investigator. She’s in charge of the lab and basically my life.”
“Ah. What about in the mornings?”
“Don’t you worry, Porter Clairborne, I’m going to be okay.”
“I’m happy one of us will be.”
~*~
I thought the first time Porter took me on a date and drove me home—or at least a block from where I lived since my aunt would have probably kicked me out had she known I was dating—was awkward. Neither of us had been sure what to do. Porter ended up going in for a hug, but me being so inexperienced, I threw my head up at the wrong moment and clocked him in the chin. After we both rubbed our affected body parts, he wrapped me up tight, not once drawing attention to my amateur move. Instead he’d whispered, “Best first date ever.”
It had been. So simple, so sweet. We’d sat on the tailgate of his truck, devouring a carton of frozen yogurt, watching the sun set, and talking about everything and nothing.
Now here we stood at my door after the arduous and painful trip up the stairs. I swore Porter shook his head at me the entire time. I did my best to hide how uncomfortable and difficult it was. My underarms already burned, and maneuvering the crutches wasn’t an easy task. Not to mention how much my ankle hurt. I made it through the periodic table a good ten times in my head trying to fight through the pain. I hadn’t had a chance to take the anti-inflammatory they’d prescribed me yet. Porter stayed silent but brooding. He knew it would do no good to ask if he could help; I wasn’t going to accept it. I had to get used to doing it on my own.
I leaned the crutches against the wall and balanced on one foot, using the wall as support.
Porter handed me the bag and my purse. I’d allowed him to carry those. He watched as I dug my keys out. His expression had gone from brooding to doleful. I did my best to ignore him. Though his laser gaze made that difficult.
I managed, through a series of breathing exercises, to stave off the pain enough to get the key in the lock. “Thank you for everything today. I’m sure you had better things to do.”
“Not one thing comes to mind.” His voice was too alluring.
I refused to make eye contact, though my myocardium was getting quite the workout. “Well, good night.” I reached for the crutches.
He reached for me and made sure I had the support I needed. “Before I go, you need to answer one question for me.”
Why must he touch me? My poor limbic system had had enough for the day. “Porter.” I met his furtive gaze. “Let’s just say goodbye.”
“We will in a minute. First,” his crooked grin grew, “tell me how you knew about Honey and Skipper?”
I dropped my keys. I had forgotten I blurted that piece of information out after my ungraceful exit and the subsequent injury that followed. My amygdala and I were going to have some serious words later.
Porter’s smirk only grew. “You pretty little liar. You were totally checking me out online.”
I went completely rigid. “Your mom could have told me about them,” I stuttered.
He leaned in, stopping inches from my face. “I don’t think so.”
“You can think what you want.”
“You’re blushing.”
“My ankle hurts and I’m tired.”
He backed away, still holding me steady. “I’ll let you get some rest. But . . . Holland,” the serious edge returned to his voice, “don’t think because you saw some photos and posts that you’re getting the full picture.”
I grabbed the crutches and escaped his grasp. “Your absence spoke louder than any picture.” I pushed my door open, trying to hide the crack in my voice.
He didn’t get in my way this time. He only watched as I struggled to make it in. There was a pallid sheen to his countenance.
I took one last look at him, meaning to tell him goodbye, but it got strangled in my throat. Instead, I stood mesmerized by his blue eyes. They were saying this was only the beginning. No. That couldn’t be. He’d vanished. And worse, he left me thinking that I wasn’t enough, like everyone else in my life up to that point had made me feel. But I had learned something these past several years. I was enough for me and me alone.
I shut the door on him. Suddenly the pain in my ankle had nothing on the ache in my chest.
It was better this way, I told myself. I’d dealt with everything that came my way, even the unspeakable things I saw at the hands of my parents, but I couldn’t bear once more to allow myself to love or to be loved.
It was better to have a void than to be filled with a loss that not even seven and a half years could heal.