This was Nixon informing me that I wasn't quite adept at working crutches.
He had shown up a few minutes before release to gather up the almost obscene amount of flowers I had been getting all morning.
I'd been dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn by a smiling woman who had woken Kingston and me up a few moments before, telling us we might want to get less cozy before the doctor came in.
Kingston, almost a little bashful, climbed out of the bed, straightening his clothes before helping the nurse get me off the side of the bed, into the wheelchair, then to the bathroom to get changed, brush my teeth, clean up a little.
The doctor came in, saying things about seeing an orthopedic specialist, about eventual physical therapy, about the importance of not getting my cast wet, handing me a couple prescriptions for pain and a little kit of things to take care of the head wound.
And then they came in.
The dreaded crutches.
"Gee, thanks, Nixon," I grumbled, feeling the hard pads scraping against the skin of my underarms and sides, the rounded hand grips crushing into my palms.
It seemed like they would get really irritating in a matter of, oh, say, a few hours.
And I would have to be on them for two months.
"Might want to drag her in one of the office chairs to scoot around your place in," Nixon suggested as I attempted to hobble my way down the hallway toward the exit. "This is just asking to break the other leg. And an arm or two."
"Your vote of confidence is really heart-warming," I grumbled.
My mood went from happy-to-be-alive-and-safe to moderately sorry-for-myself rather quickly.
That said, I was half an hour past due for the next dose of pain meds and everything was starting to throb. Anyone would be a little grumbly.
"Quit picking on her," Kingston demanded, reaching behind me to swat his brother on the back of the neck.
"I'm making helpful suggestions," he insisted, smile warmer than it usually was.
"I'm gonna hit the grocery store for you guys later. What kind of leaves and bean curd do you need me to pick up for you?"
"What part of quit picking on her is so hard to understand?" Kingston asked, rolling his eyes.
"Peanut butter," I suggested, leaning heavily on the crutches as Kingston unlocked the car doors, reaching in to tuck the medical supplies the hospital had given me into the backseat before trying to half move out of the way so I could awkwardly back toward the door. And just for a second, our gazes caught, both of them warm.
Peanut butter and jelly and cinnamon sandwiches felt like ages ago already. But for a second, we were both back there, happy, carefree, about to move things onto the next level.
"I figure you go heavy on the outside aisles - produce, bakery, dairy, then make a quick stop in pasta and rice. And call it a day," Kingston suggested, laying out perfectly my usual trips to the grocery store.
"And pancake mix," I added, making a smile pull at King's lips.
"Okay, we get it, you're a couple and have couple secrets and shit. Can we get back to the list without the gooey eyes?" Nixon asked, grimacing at us.
And that managed to break my sour mood. "I can't wait for a woman to get under his skin," I declared, laughing at the disgusted look on his face.
"Yeah, don't hold your breath, Savvs."
"I bet you're next," I told him with certainty.
"Take that back. Put that curse on Atlas or something."
"Curse," Kingston snorted. "Never known you to be so dramatic."
"I think it is because he secretly craves to get the warm and tinglies," I said, barely able to hold back the laugh, enjoying his discomfort a little too much.
"You know, that would make sense. He's suppressing his need of a happily-ever-after. That's why he's such a dick all the time."
"If this is what I have to look forward to with you as a couple, I am going in on Mark's bet."
Scotti's husband Mark took bets on everything. How long Atlas is going to spend with a woman, the sex of a baby when someone got pregnant, what his mother was going to serve for dinner. How long it would take at dinner before Shane made some comment about the gym.
Never mind the fact that he always, always lost. Even on the sex of his own kids with Scotti. It never ruined the fun for him. It didn't surprise me in the least that there was a pool going on us.
"When did he start it up? While I was in surgery?" I asked, small-eyeing him.
To that, Nixon let out a long, self-satisfied laugh as he walked away.
"What was so funny?"
"Mark had the pool going since we first met," Kingston informed me, making my mouth drop open.