What I Need

by J. Daniels

  I leave the box on the floor and rush over. “It’s okay. I got it. Really,” I say, ducking under his arm and draping it over my shoulder. I help him straighten up, holding onto his wrist and wrapping my other hand around his waist. “Come on. Let’s get you back on the couch.”

  He hesitates, but eventually lets me support him and hops a step.

  “I could’ve managed myself. I just needed a minute,” he grumbles.

  “But I’m here. It’s better if I help you.” Stopping at the middle cushion, I lift my head and look up at CJ. He’s smiling down at me.

  I could say something snarky, or tease how he’ll probably be stumbling more often to get this close to me again, but I don’t.

  “Thank you for wanting to help me though,” I tell him, watching his grin soften. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “Nothing nice about it. It’s the right thing to do,” he argues, stating that matter-of-factly.

  I blink up at him, thinking about the day I moved into Richard’s house and how he told me helping him carry things in would help move this shit along, and how when he saw me struggling with a box as heavy as the one I just carried inside, he laughed and said I needed to lift with my knees. That was the only help he offered that day.

  My eyes fall to a spot on CJ’s shirt.

  “You all right?” he asks me.

  No. Not at all, I think, but I don’t tell him that.

  I force a smile and give it to him. “Yep,” I lie. “Come on. Back on the couch you go.”

  I get CJ re-situated on his back, boosting his ankle up with a pillow and handing him the remote, then I empty out the box a couple of items at a time and carry them to the master bedroom.

  The bedroom I’ll be sleeping in.

  Later that night after a quick dinner of sandwiches and chips—CJ had lunchmeat that needed to be eaten and not much else in his refrigerator or cabinets, leaving us with little choice that didn’t include takeout—I slip on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, handle my bathroom routine, secure my hair up into messy bun, and climb into bed.

  I draw the sheets around me as cold air blows out of the vent on the wall directly above my head.

  CJ’s smell is everywhere. On the pillow and the satin touching my skin. His summer meadow soap and that clean, masculine scent I took home with me after the weekend of the wedding.

  I close my eyes.

  More cold air blows out of the vent. My teeth chatter and a chill runs through me. I kick the covers off, swing my legs out of bed, and walk over to the suitcases I have yet to unpack.

  I rifle through the one, looking for something with sleeves. When I flip open the lid of the second suitcase and stare at my collection of crop tops and frayed jean shorts, I give up and move to the dresser along the wall.

  The bottom drawer holds what I’m looking for, and I slip on the light grey Ruxton Police Department hoodie with the word Tully in white screen-print on the back.

  It’s soft and well-worn and the sleeves are stretched out and fraying.

  I never want to take it off.

  I draw the hood over my head and climb back into bed. I close my eyes.

  And I don’t know if it’s because I’m in CJ’s house or in the bedroom I know is his, or if it’s because he’s all around me, in the sheets I’m tucking underneath my chin or the loved cotton against my cheek, but my mind goes back to that night at The Red Door. I can hear CJ calling out and I can feel Richard’s harsh grip on my arms as he drags me down the sidewalk. And then I’m being thrown to the ground and he’s there, CJ is right there, reaching out to me to make this better and to get me safe, and then he’s gone, and there’s shards of glass hitting me and people are screaming out.

  I see him. He’s lying there with his eyes closed and blood and broken glass beneath him. And Richard is getting pulled away by police and he’s screaming at me, he’s calling me a bitch and telling me to help him, but I need to help CJ. I need to, because this is all my fault.

  It’s my fault.

  A sob catches in my throat as I press my cotton covered hand against my mouth. Again, I’m kicking the comforter off and swinging my legs out of bed, but instead of looking for more layers to keep warm with, I leave the bedroom I’m living in now and pad down the hallway to the other. I stand in the doorway.

  CJ is lying on his side facing away from me. The moonlight is shining through the window. I can see him. He’s shirtless and the sheet is gathered at his waist, and I don’t make a sound but he hears me and turns his head, peering at me over his shoulder.

  I don’t know if I woke him or if he’s having the same nightmares as me. I don’t ask either.

  He motions with his head for me to enter the room. I round the bed and crawl under the cool sheet, sliding closer until I can bury my face in his chest and get his arms around me.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I cry, feeling my tears slide down my cheek and press into the skin above his heart.

  CJ’s arms tighten around me. He ducks his head close to mine and soothes me with his hand moving up and down my back. He doesn’t say a word.

  He holds me, and allows me to say mine.

  And when I finally fall asleep a hundred apologies later, the nightmare doesn’t follow.

  I WAKE UP with Riley curled against my side, not wrapping herself around me like the last time we slept together but still pressing close.

  Her head is on the pillow I gave her. Her hands are sleeve covered and shielding her mouth. She’s breathing slowly and evenly. She looks peaceful.

  Finally. Took hours of crying to get her here.

  Riley came to my room needing to apologize. I got that. She was feeling that blame and had been feeling it. I saw it in her eyes at the hospital. Saw it again standing in my living room with her, and if she didn’t give me her sorry and get that shit off her chest, it would eat away at her. She’d let that guilt tear her down. She’d keep it between us.

  Fuck that. I didn’t want that. I don’t want anything between us.

  That’s the only reason I keep my mouth shut and let Riley do what she needed to do.

  I sure as fuck don’t want any apology from her. I don’t blame her for what happened that night. Not for any part of it. And I don’t want to see her crying—makes me want to go pay that cocksucker ex of hers a visit and pull his limbs off—but if it gets Riley past her guilt and allows us to move forward, fuck it. I’ll lay here, hold her, and take it.

  And that’s exactly what I do.

  Slept for shit `cause I kept waking up needing to make sure she wasn’t shedding tears again. My leg was killing me too. I could’ve used more of my pain meds, but I didn’t want to move and risk waking Riley.

  She didn’t pass out until late. I have no idea what time, but she probably would’ve kept going if her body hadn’t exhausted on her.

  Thank fuck it did.

  Riley needs sleep. I know she has a test in class today. She shared that with me last night when I asked why she was flipping through flashcards while we were eating dinner.

  She looked nervous about it and said it was worth a huge chunk of her grade so yeah, she needs sleep.

  And I need to quit looking at her and go get some fucking coffee.

  After scrubbing at my face with both hands, I roll to my side and push up, swinging my legs over and sitting on the edge of the bed. I glance down at my wrapped ankle.

  My left leg feels heavier than my right. It feels that way all the time. Not just when I move it. There’s a constant dull ache running up my calf, worse now since I’ve gone all night without any pain meds. It hurts, but I can tolerate it. The Percocet they prescribed does its job, numbs it out for a while, but it also gives me that fucked up, foggy-head feeling. I don’t like taking it during the day. I don't like feeling out of it. Maybe I’ll save them up for when I start PT in a couple of weeks. I know that’s going to suck. Not just `cause I’ll be working my injury for the first time, but also `cause I know I’m going to be pushing myself.

>   No way am I staying laid up for five months.

  I’ve always recovered quickly from injuries before. I broke my shoulder, ribs, and clavicle playing football growing up. Healed up faster than the doctors were expecting with those. And I know this won’t be any different.

  I’m motivated. I can’t stand this laying around shit. I need to get back to work.

  After pulling on the white t-shirt I discarded at the foot of the bed last night, I reach for my crutches propped against the wall and use them to help me stand. Then keeping my foot up, I maneuver out of the bedroom and head down the hallway.

  I can’t put any weight on my left foot yet. Hurts like a motherfucker if I do—I found that out yesterday. But the second I’m able to, I’m ditching these crutches. They're a pain in the ass to use and I don’t like needing something to help me get around.

  I already got plans for them too. I figure they’ll make good burning wood once I take off the rubber stoppers at the bottom and the padding around the handles.

  I power on the Keurig and get my coffee made once I make it to the kitchen, then bracing against the counter for balance, I grab the box of Raisin Bran from on top of the fridge and go about pouring myself a bowl.

  Back pressing to the hard edge of the granite, I stand in the kitchen and eat my breakfast, doing this while looking out into the living room.

  My eyes cut to the notebooks Riley left out last night. They’re sitting on the lip of the counter where the bar stools are pulled up. A few papers are scattered there too.

  Ditching a crutch and keeping hold of my bowl, I hobble over to the sink and lean over it to look at the papers. One in particular grabs my attention: Riley’s schedule. I glance it over while I shovel cereal into my mouth.

  She has class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mostly in the morning and ending just after one, unless she has labs. Clinical eats up her time the rest of the week.

  Good to know.

  I’m scraping cereal off the bottom of my bowl when quiet footsteps cause me to turn my head.

  Riley steps into the room and stops a few feet away, hood still up and one eye peering at me. She digs a sleeve covered knuckle into the other and offers me a sleepy, “Hey”.

  I lower my bowl and look at her, at the hoodie of mine she’s swimming in and her black painted toes peeking out from underneath her pajamas. Goddamn. She looks good waking up in my house.

  Really fucking good.

  “Mornin’,” I greet her, straightening up. I watch her brow pull tight after she lowers her hand. “What?”

  “Why are you up? You should be off your feet,” she says, raising a hand to point at my leg.

  “Man’s gotta eat, babe. I was hungry,” I tell her. I lift my bowl to show her my evidence. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to stand around a little. Why the fuck else would they give me crutches?”

  “I could’ve made you breakfast,” she informs me. “You should’ve gotten me up.”

  “Make me breakfast now.”

  Riley looks from the bowl in my hand to my face again. She tilts her head. “But, you ate, didn’t you?” she questions. “Isn’t that bowl empty?”

  I flash her a smile. “Yeah, it’s empty. But I typically polish off half a box before I get going every morning. This was just my first bowl.”

  Her eyes go round. “You eat a half a box of cereal every morning? Really?” she asks, sounding and looking shocked.

  “You see how big I am? Fuck yeah, I eat half a box of cereal every morning. Sometimes more.” I go to set my bowl in the sink, but hesitate, looking back to her and asking, “Are you going to make me something or should I pour myself another?”

  Riley blinks, lets her eyes fall to my bicep and hold there for a breath, then looks back into my face. Reaching up, she pushes her hood back and starts walking toward me.

  “Eggs okay?” she asks.

  Hell yeah. She’s making me something.

  “Fuckin’ A,” I answer, freeing my hands up and then moving out of the kitchen to give her some space. I get around the counter and claim a stool, leaning my crutch against the seat beside me. Riley carries over the other I had propped against the stove and my coffee after she spots it. She hands them over. “Appreciate it, darlin’,” I say before taking a sip.

  Her cheeks pink up. She pulls in a breath through her nose and tucks her hair behind her ears. “Right. Eggs,” she says, clapping her hands together. “You want sunny-side up or over easy?”

  “Scrambled off the table?”

  Her lips press together. “Mm, I’ve been told my scrambled needs work,” she informs me, lifting her shoulder. “I always overcook them.”

  She looks a little uneasy sharing that, and I have a feeling it’s not because of what she’s sharing but rather who had that opinion and gave it to her.

  I set my cup down and keep my hands around it, watching her gaze fall.

  “Look at me,” I tell her.

  She lifts her eyes.

  “Anything you feel like making me, I’m going to eat,” I begin to share, keeping hold of her gaze. “I'm going to appreciate you for making it, no matter what it is, and I sure as fuck am not going to tell you it needs work. The fact that you’re making it means I don’t have to. That’s not lost on me. So if you’re feeling scrambled right now `cause that’s what you prefer making and fuck anyone who says you can’t do it right, have at it, babe. If you set it in front of me, I’ll eat it. I’ll enjoy every fucking bite too.”

  Half of Riley’s mouth is lifting by the time I finish speaking. She blinks at me, then drags her teeth across her bottom lip and nods her head, declaring, “I want to make scrambled. They’re my favorite.”

  “Hell yeah. Do your thing, girl,” I encourage, making her giggle. I smile at her, giving her that before she spins around to get started.

  Riley Tennyson, smiling and laughing in my kitchen.

  Fuck yeah. I like this.

  I sip my coffee as she moves to the fridge and takes out the eggs. “I cooked them wrong for years until someone told me you gotta take them off the heat when they still look wet. I had no clue,” I tell the back of her, wanting to offer up some advice without Riley knowing that’s what I’m doing.

  That dumbass she was with should’ve helped her out if he was bitching about what she was giving him. If you’ve got the balls to critique someone, you need to show them what they’re doing wrong so they can learn. Otherwise, keep your fucking mouth shut.

  I’m going to assume, since he is a dumbass, that Richard bitched and didn’t offer up any advice.

  Riley straightens up and looks at me over her shoulder after digging through a bottom cabinet and pulling out a pan. “Yeah. That’s a . . . pretty important step. Otherwise you’ll totally overcook them,” she says, sounding sure of herself.

  I smirk behind my coffee cup.

  She starts getting everything ready—cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them together with some milk while her pan is heating up.

  I stare at the back of her, at my name written in white. The block lettering peeking out from underneath the hood.

  “I’m going to go grocery shopping today, so let me know if you want anything specific,” she says, lifting my gaze to her messy, bedhead blonde. I hear the sizzling of the pan as she pours in the egg mixture.

  “Can’t think of anything,” I tell her. “Except maybe some more Raisin Bran. I’m running low.”

  “What?” she chuckles. “You have like, five boxes in your pantry. I saw them last night when I was getting out the bread.”

  “That’s a two-day supply for me. We covered this.”

  Riley continues laughing quietly as she stirs. “Okay. I’ll pick up some more while I’m out,” she says through a smile I can’t see. “I was thinking about making chili for dinner. Do you like chili?”

  “I fucking love chili, but I wasn’t lying. If you put it in front of me, I’ll eat it. So if it’s something you feel like making, make it, babe. Don’t worry about wh
at I like.”

  “But what if I make something, like chili, and you don’t eat meat?” she asks, turning her head to peer back at me. “I need to know if you have any dietary restrictions. I can make it meatless.”

  I cock my head. “Aside from the fact that I got dead animals mounted on my wall, do I look like I don’t eat meat to you?” I ask her.

  Riley’s eyes lower to my chest, hold there for a beat then quickly dart back up to my face. “No. You look like you eat meat,” she says before turning back around. “A lot of it,” she adds on a mumble.

  I smirk as she continues stirring up the eggs.

  “So, how are you getting to your appointment today? You can’t drive, can you?”

  “Nope. Truck’s a stick,” I answer, setting my cup down. “I’ll probably just call a cab since I can’t bum a ride. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t take you,” she says, turning sideways to look at me while keeping hold of the spatula. Her eyes are heavy with sadness. “I’d skip class if it wasn’t for my test today, but they don’t let us make those up. I really can’t miss it. I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.”

  She presses her lips together, looking like she is worrying about it.

  Fuck.

  I don’t want her worrying. And I don’t want Riley thinking she needs to be apologizing either—I got enough of that shit last night.

  “Riley, babe, I know you want to help me out as much as you can, I get that, I appreciate it too, but you gotta life and shit that’s important. More important than giving me a ride,” I tell her, needing this information to stick so we don’t have this conversation again. “I got you here making me breakfast, darlin’, and you’re talking about making me dinner too. Honest, as much as I enjoy eating, I care about that more than you taking me to a doctor’s appointment. So when I say don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it. Don’t tell me you’re sorry either. You don’t need to be. Okay?”

  She pulls in a breath through her nose, then nods her head. “Okay,” she says quietly.