Chapter Twenty-Four
JENSEN
THEN
OCTOBER
I adjust the ice pack on my knee, the TV casting just enough light to see. Some rom-com Alley picked plays in the background. I couldn’t tell you the name. It’s had a few funny moments, but I’ve stopped paying attention.
I take a long sip of my IPA, almost like I’m trying to chase the relief. My knee’s been giving me hell. Like always.
I only have eleven pills left.
Eleven.
I’ve started taking them in the mornings just to get through the day. I’m way more productive when I’m not gritting my teeth through every meeting. My mood’s better, too. When the pain flares, my patience thins, and I get irritable. That’s not who I am—not normally.
Up until last week, I was able to go every other day. Now it’s every day. It’s still just half a pill, though. Not a big deal. The dose is hardly anything. I’m still functioning, still working.
The drowsiness I had at first faded after a few. That’s when I switched to mornings.
Alley shifts beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. Her head drops to my shoulder, and my arm lifts automatically from her thigh, wrapping around her. I press a kiss to the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo. I can never quite place what it is, but it smells good—smells like her.
Her laughter fills the room, and a grin tugs at my lips, even though I have no clue what she’s laughing at. It’s a nice distraction. But it’s short lived. My mind drifts back to my knee, and the issue at hand.
What will I do when I run out?
I let them run out. Obviously. I don’t need them. I can switch back to ibuprofen. I still take it, just after the pill wears off. It’s manageable.
I’ll wean off.
Same as after the surgery. Every other day, then just as needed.
I do the math. If I time it right, I can be off them by the time I run out. Maybe even stash two or three for emergencies. That buys me two weeks to taper, and still leaves a safety net. Totally doable.
I force my attention back to the television.
Yeah. That’s what I’ll do. That’s a good plan.
I tip back the rest of my warm beer, because I already know the ibuprofen I’ll take in an hour won’t do shit. At least the alcohol might take the edge off.
I slam the door behind me, raking a hand through my hair as I pass the kitchen and head straight down the hall to our bedroom. In the closet, I rip off my work pants, tug on a pair of joggers, and throw a hoodie over my head.
I’m tense as fuck.
One day. One fucking day, and I’m about to lose my goddamn mind.
I walk back into the kitchen, dragging a hand down my face, deliberately avoiding the medicine cabinet.
Don’t even look at it.
I already took ibuprofen two hours ago. And four hours before that—and when I woke up. I’m way over the limit.
God, I’m gonna fuck up my stomach.
I groan, grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge and the ice pack from the freezer, then park my ass on the couch.
I settle into my usual spot, propping my leg on the coffee table, the other relaxed with my foot on the floor. I flip on the TV, but my eyes don’t even register the screen. I just stare, blank and unfocused at the wall in front of me.
Work sucked today. The pain was brutal. Nonstop. All day. I didn’t realize how much relief I’d been getting until it was gone. But it’s bad. It was hell.
It got so bad that I broke down and called the doctor’s office around noon, desperate for an appointment.
I don’t even know what they’ll do—prescribe something, recommend surgery, maybe throw me back into physical therapy.
That shit frustrates me more than anything.
It’s a never-ending carousel of appointments that all lead to the same dead end.
It’s not going to get better.
I’ll have ups and downs with this for the rest of my life. The knee’s been through too much—too many injuries, too much damage. It’s compromised.
My jaw tightens, and I drum my fingers against my thigh, trying to stay calm.
The front door opens, and Alley’s voice echoes through the apartment. “Hey, babe. You’re home early.”
Yeah. My knee is killing me.
“Hey,” I call out, glancing at her. She’s in her gym clothes, hair pulled up, and my eyes drop to her tits in her workout tank.
But only briefly.
My mind’s too scattered to linger. I barely register Alley’s voice—something about work, her day—blending into the background noise of the TV, muffled beneath the dull, relentless throb in my knee.
I shift, pressing my fingers into the joint, trying to work out a knot that won’t let go. The ibuprofen should’ve kicked in by now. Maybe it’s just not strong enough. Maybe it never really worked in the first place.
My eyes flick to the kitchen. The cupboard. Second shelf. The bottle’s still there.
Stop.
“Jensen?”
I blink. She’s watching me, waiting for a response. I force a nod and reach for my water, taking a slow sip—anything to buy time.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
She studies me for half a second too long… then keeps talking.
One day. That’s all. One fucking day without it. My knee pulses with a slow, familiar ache. I exhale, rubbing my jaw, forcing my eyes away from the cupboard.
I can do this.
“Babe.” Alley’s standing in front of me.
My brain stalls for a beat, and I force my gaze to hers. “Yeah?”
Her brows knit. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I shake it off. Push it down. “Yeah… sorry. Just a stressful day at work. I guess I brought it home with me. Sorry.”
“I’m sorry, babe. That sucks.” Her eyes flick to my knee, then back to me. “Have you made an appointment yet? You can’t take ibuprofen forever, you know. Even one dose a day isn’t good for you.”
“Yeah, I know. I called today. I’ve got an appointment Friday.”
Jesus. She’s worried about me taking it once a day, and I’m over here counting down the minutes until I can take my fourth dose.
She sits across from me on the coffee table, careful not to bump my leg. Her hand finds my calf, a comforting presence.
“That’s good. I’m glad you’re finally going in.” She leans forward for a kiss, then pulls back with a grin so big it tugs my lips into a smile without even trying. “I have fun news.”
I cock a brow. “Yeah? What is it?”
“Zach and Joey got engaged! I’m so excited and happy for them!”
“That’s awesome! When did that happen, this past weekend?”
“Yeah. I think they’ll get married next summer. You should’ve seen Zach at work. He was glowing. It was so cute. They’ll probably have a big party this weekend or next, just FYI.”
“Well, we’ll make sure we’re there. That should be fun.”
“Yeah. It will be… Okay, I’m gonna go hop in the shower. You good? Need anything?” she asks, giving my leg a gentle rub, her eyes flicking to the ice pack.
“Nah, I’m good, babe.”
“Alright.” She leans in, kissing me softly before standing. As she walks away, she tosses a glance over her shoulder. “You know you can join me… if you want.”
My lips curve slowly.
Turns out, my knee doesn’t hurt that bad. I’ll limp if I have to.
“Right behind you,” I call, tipping back the last of my water and setting the glass down before rising to follow her. She’s already peeling her clothes off as she disappears down the hall.
Funny how the sight of her bare ass works better than any painkiller.
My eyes open, and I blink a few times. A dull throb pulses up my thigh and into my hip—deep, down to the bone.
Great. Now my whole body’s fucked.
Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, my vision adjusting to the dark. The soft white noise from Alley’s phone hums beside her, filling the room.
The pulse sharpens into a pound, and my hand flies to my hip, pressing hard against the ache buried deep in the joint.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the dark.
My mind immediately goes to the Oxy on the shelf. Relief, just steps away.
God, relief.
I’m dying for it. I can’t keep doing this.
Maybe I’ll just take more ibuprofen—or alternate with Tylenol. Something. Anything.
I glance over at Alley and almost laugh. Mouth wide open—catching flies, as always. The soundless chuckle eases the pain, if only for a second.
My chest tightens. Fuck, I’ve got to get this figured out. She didn’t sign up for a life with a guy who’s going to slow her down in ten years.
Hopefully the doctor has answers on Friday. I’ll try anything. If not for me, then for her—for my wife. For the future we’re building.
She went off birth control before the wedding.
We talked about it. We’re ready. She’ll be thirty next year, and I’ll be thirty-three.
We’ve got steady jobs, we’ve lived together for over two years.
We’re in love. We’re married. It’s the next step.
It feels right. But I refuse to accept a version of my life where I’m not able to run around with my kids, play basketball with them, walk the golf course.
I need to be active, strong and present.
No. I won’t fucking accept that.
The ache in my leg grows sharper, and I swing to the edge of the bed, sitting up. I bend and straighten my knee a few times, stretching it, trying to wake it up. My fingers dig into the muscles around it, massaging through the pain, searching for any kind of relief.
I push myself off the bed and shuffle into the kitchen. My palms brace against the counter as a sharp pang shoots through my leg. I grit my teeth, eyes locked on the medicine cabinet.
It’s right there.
Relief.
No. I’ll take ibuprofen.
Forcing my gaze away, I grab a glass and fill it with water. The bottle of ibuprofen is already on the counter, so I twist the lid off and shake two into my hand.
Alley’s words echo in my head—“You can’t take that stuff forever.
” I hold them in my hand for a couple of seconds, then toss them back into the bottle.
I know they’re bad for me. They can fuck up my stomach.
And the rate I’ve been taking them, like they’re going out of style?
Well, that can’t be good. They don’t do anything anyway. My knee’s too far gone.
I slide the bottle back across the counter and open the medicine cabinet instead. The prescription bottle sits right at eye level.
Reaching for it, I twist the cap, and let one pill fall into my hand. My eyes squeeze shut as the pain explodes through me, like shrapnel after a bomb. It hits every nerve, every thought, until there’s nothing left but agony.
God, it hurts so bad. I tell myself again and again, Don’t be a fucking pussy. But each pulse grows stronger, louder—like music swelling at a concert. The pain radiates through me, along with the voices in my head telling me not to do this.
Put it back. It’s not that bad. Take the ibuprofen. Wait until Friday.
Fisting the pill in my palm, my whole body tenses, fighting the urge that’s raging inside me.
Friday. That’s still three days away. I could just take them until then—after I go to the doctor.
They’ll give me something else, something for the pain that isn’t this.
I’ll start physical therapy. It’ll get better.
I won’t need these after Friday. Only one a day until then.
Just enough to get by, until I have another solution.
Slowly, I open my hand, staring at the little white pill. This small amount has to be better for me than all the ibuprofen I’ve been popping. I went over the recommended daily dose yesterday.
That can’t be good.
Why am I even questioning this? Half a pill, or overdosing on ibuprofen every goddamn day? It’s not even working. It’s a no-brainer.
I grab a knife, cut it in half, and pop it into my mouth. Bitter powder seeps across my tongue from the freshly split pill. Bringing the glass to my lips, I let the cold water swirl around, trying to wash out the taste. I kick it back and swallow.
I drop the other half into the ibuprofen bottle, wipe the counter clean, and carry the bottle to my office. Gripping the zipper on my work bag, I tug it open and drop it inside.
I sink into my desk chair, my good knee bouncing.
Sleep’s pointless now. I have to be up in less than an hour anyway.
I force myself to be productive—flip open my laptop and run a few reports, then open a presentation I’ve been prepping for the executive team.
Each passing minute drags, feeling like an eternity, as I wait for the Oxy to kick in and do its job.
My gaze flicks to the clock on my laptop. It’s only been twenty-five minutes? It feels like it’s been an hour. My knee’s still throbbing. It should’ve kicked in by now. Shit. It’s not working.
I lean back, stroking my jaw, my elbow resting on my arm crossed tight over my stomach. My eyes lock on my backpack, my knee still bouncing. I’m restless as fuck.
I don’t think. I just move.
Before I know it, I’m unzipping my pack and reaching for the ibuprofen bottle. My fingers close around it, pulse pounding in my throat. I know what I’m doing. I know exactly what I’m doing.
I fish the other half from the bottle, bitter powder dusting my fingertips. There’s no hesitation this time. I pop it into my mouth, gather enough spit to swallow, and feel the heat rise across my tongue as it slides down.
And I swear to God—I already feel better.