“I need to get my own head on straight about all of this before I can even begin to
talk to you about it. You won’t understand.” I manage to maneuver past him and hit
the button for the elevator. The doors open immediately and I step in. Hitting the L button for the living room, I turn around and see him standing there, watching me.
A few seconds later the doors are opening onto the kitchen and living room level of
my condo, which is two floors below my bedroom, and standing there in front of me
is Tristan. I smirk. Then I see him take a deep breath, like he’s trying to catch
his breath, and I can’t help but laugh. “I’m impressed.”
He laughs too, and the tension between us shatters into a thousand pieces. I know
deep down that I owe him an apology, but I’m not ready to give it to him, not yet.
As I come around the wall that divides the living room from the stairs and elevator,
I can see that the walls are clean, everything is put in its place, and the brown
package is gone.
“Did you—?”
“No, Beau and Mick did while I was at the hospital with you.”
“You’d think I would remember that, or even how I got there. But I don’t remember
anything.”
“I don’t doubt that. I found three empty wine bottles, one empty Crown, and then the
one you had in the living room with you when I came home, which was about half gone.
That’s a lot of alcohol in two days.”
“Jesus, I had no idea I—”
“Beau said that you and she polished off two of the wine bottles Tuesday night.”
“Jesus, still.”
“I’m afraid to think about what I might’ve come back to if I’d waited until today.”
I don’t answer his statement. I know damn well what he’s thinking, and I’m not sure
I’m a fan of the idea either. I imagine that I would have probably been passed out
or worse. “I’m surprised you’re doing as well as you are today.”
“I’m not entirely convinced that I’m not still drunk,” I say as I take a seat at the
bar in the kitchen. My armpits are already sore and my foot is killing me, though
the Tylenol seems to have helped my headache. “How long do I have to walk around on
these things?”
“Until the stitches come out.” Oh, hell. “In about seven days.”
“Ugh! That’s too long,” I groan.
“Not my orders.” He goes over to the counter and grabs something, then goes to the
cupboard for a glass. He fills it with ice and water from the fridge door and gives
it to me, then hands me two more pills.
“What are these?”
“Antibiotics. You stepped on glass, it’s to ward off any infection. You need to take
these two now, then two more in a little while, before bed.”
I’m really beginning to feel guilty about the way that I treated him this afternoon
when I woke up and even last night. He’s done everything to take care of me and I
was a complete and utter bitch. “Come here, please?”
He looks at me, a little surprised and probably hesitant, and I don’t blame him, but
he comes to me anyway. He comes to stand between my legs and I wrap my arms around
his waist, pulling him close to me, resting my head against his chest. I stay there
for a minute, until he finally brings his own arms around me, holding me to him, and
he starts to play with my hair. I lift my head and lean back to look at him, but I
don’t loosen my grip around his waist. “I am so, so sorry,” I say, but the words are
barely a whisper and my eyes begin to fill with tears. “You’ve been nothing but caring
and supportive and I’m treating you like shit.”
He doesn’t say anything, but his hands come to my cheeks, holding me between them,
and he leans down so that we are nose to nose. “You’re going through a lot, and you’re
in a lot of pain, physically and emotionally, but you need to remember, I am not your
enemy, Cami. I am here for you, to support you and to take care of
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