“Not forever, just until you’re able to move around better on your own.”
“But that’s what nurses are for?”
“Baby, why you want to pay a nurse when I can do it for free. Plus, I guarantee my bedside manner is much better.” He waggles his eyebrows as he says that, making me laugh. Which hurts my ribs and I wince.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, just don’t make me laugh.”
“Well, that might be hard given all of my charm and obvious wit.”
I smile at that but refrain from laughing. Barely. Because he makes me laugh all the time, it’s one of the things I love most about him. Just not when I have a broken rib and punctured lung.
“How about if you are there for the charm and wit, but you go home at night and a nurse takes over?” I ask, immediately regretting it when I see the hurt look on his face.
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“I know you can handle it.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he asks.
We could keep going in loops, or I could just be honest with him. I choose the latter. “There will be personal things you’ll have to help me with, you know.”
“Oh, I know. I excel at sponge baths,” he says suggestively.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Sweetheart, I did four tours in combat, I can handle a bandage change.”
“Also, not what I mean.”
He looks at me, brows raised.
So, I go for it. “I have to use the restroom.”
“Do you need help getting there?” he asks, standing. Confusing me for a moment.
“No, I mean, I will have to use the restroom.”
“I can help you with that, babe. You embarrassed for me to know you poop? Everyone poops. There’s even a book about it.”
“Okay, and what happens after the poop?”
His face lights with realization. “Babe, it’s fine. Shit smells. No biggie. I’ll go get you some of that poop-pourri or whatever it is. Does that make you feel better?”
I sigh. He doesn’t get it. Do I tell him or don’t I? I can’t believe this much effort and thought into my impending bowel movements. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“I can’t wipe my ass, Mack.” I gesture to my broken wrist as I say it. Annoyed all over again that I’m in this situation, needing help, unable to care for myself, and all because I was a dumbass. Well, the guy who shot up my car more so, but me too.
He stills. His face goes blank as it dawns on him what I’m saying.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” I say, gesturing toward his expression.
He scoots his chair back from the bed and covers his mouth for a moment, holding up a finger when I begin to speak again. I wait, letting him do whatever he needs to in order to back out of this, go back to his job, and let me hire a nurse that I can yell at.
He stands and walks around in a small circle in the middle of the room, holding that same finger out all the while to keep me silent. His face reddens, and his cheeks puff.
“Are you laughing?” I ask.
