Chapter 2

TWO

Britt

It's been a busy day. Nonstop running. Well, not literally running. The leg's not up for that yet. But at least all the pins and screws are gone and I don't look like a side character in Hellraiser anymore. That's a solid win for me right now.

Getting out of the car, I walk up to the door of the babysitter's house. Deanna Stevens has had a hard way to go. But she's a good mom and I know she can use the little bit of extra income she gets for watching Karli a couple of hours a day after school. It's not a biggie for her and she swears I don't need to pay her. After all, she's picking her own kid up at the same school. But she's had enough people taking advantage of her for being too nice for her own good.

I knock on the door and Malcolm answers. That boy is taller every time I see him. He literally towers over me. "Whattup, Mal? Or does it make me sound old to say that?"

He grimaces. "I can't answer that honestly without getting grounded for being rude."

I have to laugh. "You're a good kid. Has Karli terrorized you this afternoon?"

"Nah. She was fine. We watched Bluey. And more Bluey. And then Bluey mini-episodes."

I'm still grinning as I walk past him through their small two bedroom apartment. They have a little patio on the back through a meticulously clean sliding door. Karli is bouncing up and down on a kid size yoga ball. Deanna's little girl, Addison, is a couple of years older than Karli, but they play well together.

"Hey Dee... how's it going?"

She shakes her head, her slightly shaggy pixie cut ruffling in the breeze. "I wish I had even a tenth of their energy. You have a good day?"

"Busy. Doctor's appointment. DMV. Physical therapy. But I'd rather run my tail off and get it all done in one than have to try and schedule that much time away from work."

"You need to do something other than work! You're young, Britt. Go out on a date. Have some fun."

She's not that much older than me. But she says it like there's a hundred years between us. I guess maybe there is. Dakota was a faithless ass and perpetual man-child, but at least he wasn't a violent psycho. "No time."

"Make time," she says. "I'll keep Karli for the night. Malcolm is going over to JT's for the night. Karli, Addie, and I will paint our nails and watch Disney princesses. It'll be magical... Even if you don't do something fun, you can at least relax a little."

The idea of a long hot bath that isn't interrupted by a million questions, someone being ‘firsty' or trying to DoorDash chicken nuggets without permission—that's the dream. "On one condition... I get to do the same thing for you. I'll take Addie one weekend and give you some downtime."

"It's a deal... Don't worry about clothes for her. Addie's so tiny that I know she's got some pj's Karli can wear."

I look at my kid, still bouncing like she's made with springs. "Hey, K, you wanna have a sleepover?" The question is met with deafening squeals that can only mean yes.

Deanna waves me off and I head back through her apartment. She puts me to shame as a housekeeper. Everything in that apartment is spotless. I'm making a mental list–comparing the pros and cons of having a little me time or actually tackling the half inch thick layer of dust in my house. I'm sliding behind the wheel, weighing the options, when my phone dings.

Hot Doc: Last minute shift switch and I've got the night off. Don't make me suffer the misery of a Friday night alone. A fully loaded pizza in exchange for a little company?

And my house is not getting cleaned. The dust will live another day.

I swipe my thumb over the screen, back and forth over the keyboard. It dawns on me that texting is kinda like a Ouija board. You're just summoning booty calls instead of spirits.

B: I've got the night off, too, strangely enough. Sleep overs are better than winning the lottery. Make that a margarita and some queso, doc, and you're on.

I get the dot dot dot for a second. Then just a thumbs up.

B: Boomer

Hot Doc: Zennial. If they card you, you're paying for your own drink.

I laugh at that. He's up shit creek on that one. I went to high school with half the wait staff and all the bartenders.

B: You're on. 7?

Hot Doc: I'm not giving you another thumbs up or you'll sign me up for AARP newsletters. See you then.

I check the clock on the dash. It's just after five. That gives me plenty of time to go home, shower, shave everything that needs it and leave the house looking like an actual human for a change.

I'm about halfway home before the doubts creep in. Not about him. Not about the fact that I'd dearly love to do filthy, filthy things with that man. But outside of medical professionals–and in this instance, he does not count–no one has seen me naked since the fall. No one has touched the ugly ass scars that are marching up and down my thigh, a constant reminder of all the hell a single second of carelessness caused.

"Shut up," I tell myself. "This is what the margarita is for."