I've always known I'm clumsy. I bump into table corners, trip over my own shoes, misjudge steps like it's a personal talent. But I've never sprained my ankle before, and I genuinely didn't expect it to hurt this much.
It's not a sharp pain anymore, it's deep and throbbing, the kind that pulses insistently, like it's offended I dared to move at all. Still, the pain isn't the worst part of tonight.
The worst part is what happens next.
More specifically, the fact that Greg shows up so fast—too fast—with a doctor in tow, in the middle of the night, as if I've done something far more dramatic than tripping over my own furniture.
When they enter my room, heat creeps up my neck and settles stubbornly on my cheeks. I suddenly feel ridiculous, sitting on my bed in pink pajamas, hair damp and uncooperative, eyes still stinging from the childish tears I shouldn't have shed.
I avert my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the blanket in my lap.
This is so embarrassing.
