I shake my head. It’s a sweet gesture, but I am more thancapable of calling a rideshare. Besides, no one here is sober enough to drive but me, and I can’t even remember who drove us over here, let alone where they are or where their car might be. My feet are screaming in these tiny shoes, and walking across campus while making awkward small talk to whatever drunk guy Viv deems to be my chaperone does not sound like a good time.
While Viv beckons for some guy named Toad, I take the out and start to march up the hill toward the road. I have no signal out here and the house is far enough from the main road that no driver could see me if I stayed back there. The grass is patchy, but the gravel is worse, especially in these borrowed shoes. I thought the trip down the hill was tricky, but the trek upward is infinitely worse.
But I can do hard things, I think, laughing to myself. It’s the phrase I uttered daily, sometimes minute-after-minute when things went south last semester.
It might be corny, but it’s true. I’ve faced adversity and come out on top. Sometimes that means leaving a toxic situation even though it’s difficult and everyone around you thinks you’re a drama queen who feeds off the negativity.
And sometimes, it’s scaling a small mountain in a dark backyard wearing shoes that are at least a size too small. My blisters will have blisters tomorrow morning, and—fuck!The heel of my borrowed shoe gets caught in a tangle of weeds and that’s all it takes for me to go tumbling down the hill like the girl in that old movie. But as I bump and bang my way to the bottom, I remind myself there won’t be a masked man to rescue me once I come to a stop.
Oof.When I finally stop rolling, I give myself a minute to get my bearings before opening my eyes and lifting my head. My body aches, and my right ankle already feels tender, and I haven’t put any weight on it yet. But I remind myself that adversity is my bitch. I muscle up onto all fours, certain I look ridiculous and not caring in the slightest. I lean my right legback and hiss as soon as it comes in contact with the hard earth. Collapsing in a heap, I decide that this patch of dry grass is just as good a bed as Viv’s couch would be.
“Holy shit, are you okay?”
I tilt my head toward the voice that has just cut through the thick night air and my misery.
There’s no mask, no faint British accent, and no sweet love story.
But Gym Shorts Hottie is better than a movie boyfriend any day.
“I’m fine,” I say reflexively, even though that’s obviously not true.
To his credit, Gym Shorts Hottie doesn’t take my polite response for an answer. We’re far enough from the house that the partygoers aren’t paying us any attention, so at least I’m spared the humiliation of a bunch of nosy drunks.
My rescuer is kneeling on the ground next to me, but he’s no longer got that whole smolder thing going on. He’s moved into serious mode, and it’s every bit as hot.
“Let me rephrase that. What hurts the most?”
I blink up at him as I settle back on my elbows. He’s even better looking up close. “My ankle. The right one.”
He nods, assessing me. “What’s your pain on a scale of one-ten?”
“Seven and a half.” I would much rather talk to this guy about his major, his favorite movies, or his first name, but maybe I should save flirty banter for after the medical eval and after the pain meds I’m hoping Viv has in her bathroom cabinet.
“Got it. What else hurts? Rank ‘em if you can.”
“Everything? Um…in order, that’s my ankle, my shin, the side of my leg, and my pride.”
I catch him smiling and feel like I’ve won an award.
“How’s your head? Any pain at all? Sharp? Dull? Throbbing? Pounding?”
I shake my head and will myself not to make an awkward joke about the parts of my body that are throbbing or could use a good pounding. Nope. I am a twenty-one-year-old woman, not an eight-year-old kid. “No throbbing or pounding. Or pain of any kind in my head.”
He smirks before schooling his features.
“Actually…”
His eyes are on mine. “What’s up?”
Reaching back with my left hand, I run my fingers over my scalp and pull a sharp stick from the tangles of my hair. “Ouch. That was a fifteen on the pain scale, by the way,” I say, tossing it aside.
“You’ve got some more,” he says. “Ok if I hold you steady?”
I nod, unable to think of a question he could ask that I’d say no to.
He puts his left hand on my back and it’s warm and strong. I may or may not flop like a rag doll against his stabilizing grip. He reaches his right hand into the nest that is my hair and gently pulls out a few more twigs and a clump of grass. The tips of his fingers trail over my scalp, checking for any more debris, and I’m a puddle of goo. I’m not sure anyone’s ever taken such gentle care of me, at least not since I was little.
“Feel like standing on that ankle yet?” he asks.
