Page 7 of The Marriage Policy
Fuck my life. I broke my ankle. I know I did. There’s not a single doubt in my mind and—no. I shake my head, refusing to think about all the ways I’m extremely fucked right now.
I plop down in a chair and untie my shoe. The swelling’s setting in, my sock tighter on my right ankle than my left. And did I mention my shoe feels two sizes too small?
“You good? Can I go back to the game?” Tim asks. Donovan, he is not, but then he’s just a guy I play ball with sometimes. He’s not my person.
“Yeah, I’m fine. You better win for me,” I grumble as I examine my foot. It’s not hugely swollen. Maybe that’s a good sign. But I already see bruising beginning. Should I bruise that quickly? I’ve never broken something before.
Maybe I still haven’t. Maybe it’s a bad sprain and it will magically be better by tomorrow.
I tell myself that over and over while I try to figure out how I’m going to get home. My apartment is within walking distance from my gym, so I never bring my car here. There’s no way I can walk, though.
I’d call Donovan, but he works until six this evening, which means car service it is.
Using the wall to jump and hobble while also keeping your shoe in your hand? It’s not a good time. Don’t try it. But eventually I make my way outside and plop down on the bench, sweat stinging my eyes more than when I was playing ball.
I pull up the app on my phone and order a car. They’re only two minutes away, which means I don’t get much time to rest before the red Honda is pulling up for me.
And I have to hop…without a wall to help.
I hate my ankle.
I nearly fall a few times and have to stop and take a couple of breaks, but eventually I get to the car. The driver gives me a grunt when I climb in, so clearly, he’s out of patience with me and a huge dick.
My ankle throbs the whole drive to my house, and even though I’m broke and, as mentioned, he’s a huge dick, I still give him a good tip because I know people don’t make a lot of money doing jobs like that. How do I know? From experience, of course. I’ve signed up and driven ride shares for extra cash when I needed it.
It’s not until I sit at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to my apartment that I let myself truly consider how fucked I am.
I’m not going to be able to work—not that work has been super busy lately anyway.
Not being able to work means I’m not going to be able to pay my bills. Regular bills, plus the new ones I’m bound to incur because my stupid ankle hates me.
Unless I can just deal with it myself. Ice it and wrap it andpoof, everything is all better again.
I use the railing to pull myself up to my feet, then throw my shoe up the stairs. It hits the landing, but my sock falls through the steps and lands in front of my neighbor’s apartment.
Welp, there goes that sock because I’m not going to grab it. I use the railing to balance myself as I jump up the stairs on one foot. I’m out of breath, which is annoying as shit because I’m in shape. Jumping up the stairs really shouldn’t be that hard.
After that, it takes me a few minutes to fill a bag of ice, and then I plop onto my couch with my phone. I elevate my foot on pillows, lay the ice on it, and take four ibuprofens.
Everything will be okay. Tomorrow I’ll be fine.
*
I am not,in fact, fine.
I’m not dying, so that’s a plus, but my ankle or foot or both are not fine. It’s very bruised, hurts like a motherfucker, and is swollen as shit.
I have to go to the doctor, but I really, really don’t want to. I just want to pretend everything is normal. The thing is, when I left my last job to help out my buddy Cliff with his landscaping business, I did so knowing he didn’t offer medical coverage. Stupid, yes, but I’m twenty-eight and healthy. I figured I would be fine. Plus, Cliff said that eventually he’d be able to provide insurance, and when someone says something, I believe them. Cliff…doesn’t seem to like to work very much, though. Hedoesn’t try nearly as hard as he should to bring work in, and no work means no money for medical…
Again, I’m so incredibly fucked.
Donovan and Mom are going to kill me.
With a sigh, I take a photo of my foot and text it to Donovan. He’s already going to be pissed that I didn’t tell him last night, so I might as well get it over with. I’m going to need his help anyway. Thankfully he’s off today.
“Read” shows up beneath my photo. My phone will ring in three, two, one…it buzzes in my hand.
“Hello—”
