Chapter 35
Small Things
Maliyah
The discharge papers sat on the rolling table—medications, wound care, PT exercises, and follow-up appointments. "Wound check and jaw assessment next week," Carol said with a brightness that scraped against my nerves. "You'll be free to go after Dr. Pettit's visit."
Free. The word tasted bitter. Free to return to an empty apartment. Free to wait for Reed to inevitably leave. Free to communicate through scribbled notes instead of my own voice. Some freedom.
Dr. Pettit arrived minutes later, echoing Carol's instructions while checking his tablet. "Follow-ups scheduled: one week for wound check, six weeks for potential wire removal—pending healing." In the corner, Carol's barely-concealed eye roll gave me the day's only smile.
I nodded, turning my tablet his way: Understood. Thank you.
Dr. Pettit rattled off warning signs. "Fever, swelling, discharge from the wires. Breathing issues, chest pain, severe panic attacks—call immediately." He looked directly at my half-open, still-blurred eye. "I know you're independent, but you need help. Accept it."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to type that I'd been handling things on my own for years, that I didn't need anyone, but I was so tired. Tired of being in pain. Tired of always being the strong one, of doing it alone.
I will.
As Carol helped me struggle into the clothes Felicity had packed, I closed my eyes and saw myself weeks from now—no longer burdened by this pain and fully healed.
No help needed. The fantasy vanished when pain shot through my ribs, my wired jaw clenching with a sound I barely recognized as my own.
Soon enough, this would be nothing but a memory.
The wheelchair appeared—hospital policy, apparently.
I couldn't even walk out on my own two legs.
I was wheeled through the maze of hospital corridors and out the automatic doors where cold air bit at my face.
Reed crouched before me, his eyes level with mine.
Unwinding the soft gray scarf from his throat, he draped it carefully around my neck, tucking the soft fabric against my bruised skin to create a barrier between me and winter's bite.
His gaze burned into mine, hot enough to melt the winter air between us.
His fingertips grazed my cheekbone as he pulled away, leaving a trail of fire across my bruised skin.
My heart slammed against my broken ribs.
He turned and strode toward a sleek black sedan that the valet practically leapt from—not his usual car, I realized through my haze. Bigger. Newer.
"Borrowed it from a friend," he said before I could write the question. "More room. Smoother ride."
Of course he had. He helped me into the passenger seat with careful hands, mindful of my pain points, adjusting the seat back so I could recline some.
As he reached across me to buckle my seatbelt, the scent of his shampoo—cedar and something citrusy—clouded my senses.
I wanted to lean into him and push him away all at once, my fingers curling into fists on my lap as I fought the urge to touch the stubble along his jaw.
When he glanced up, our faces inches apart, I couldn’t look away.
He stepped back, his eyes still burning through me, and closed the door gently.
I looked at him through the window. He hadn't moved.
His palm pressed against the top of the window, fingers splayed, as if he might push through it to touch me.
His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath that same stubble I almost ached to touch.
Those eyes—damn those eyes—held mine with an intensity that made my chest ache worse than my ribs.
I turned away first, my fingertips rising involuntarily to my wired jaw, suddenly conscious of how I must look to him.
When I glanced back, his expression had softened into something that made my stomach flutter traitorously.
The drive home was quiet. Reed kept his speed steady, avoiding potholes, taking turns slowly.
Every bump still sent pain shooting through my body, but it could have been worse.
I watched out the window as Boston passed by.
I loved the cobblestone streets, the narrow roads lined with red brick row houses pressing close together, some more than a hundred years old.
Fall foliage had already come and gone, robbing the trees of their colorful leaves, but many were already being decorated for the upcoming holidays.
We passed a corner bodega with faded awnings, about twenty Dunkin's with their orange and pink signs glowing, a small park where the playground was filled with kids, even as cold as it was.
The streets narrowed as we turned off Broadway, triple-deckers and apartment buildings lining both sides in an unbroken wall of brick and vinyl siding.
The number 11 bus hissed past us going the opposite direction, and I caught a glimpse of passengers staring out at the gray afternoon.
All of it familiar. All of it different now.
My building appeared—three stories, red brick, squeezed between identical structures on a one-way street.
No different from a dozen others we'd passed, except this one was mine.
I'd climbed those stairs to the third floor a thousand times without thinking. Now they looked insurmountable.
Reed parked as close to the entrance as possible and he came around to help me out. "Take your time," he said. "One step at a time. I'm right here."
I stood outside, looking at the entry door. My fingers curled into fists at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The world tilted slightly, and I squeezed my eyes closed, in the darkness, I saw Bryce closing the trunk lid, heard the sounds of my breath echo off the small space.
My jaw clenched against its wires, sending a spike of pain through my temples. My breath came quick and shallow, each inhale catching on my broken ribs. My name floated through the panic. "Maliyah." Reed's voice, low and steady.
I blinked. His face swam into focus, eyes level with mine as he crouched slightly. The crease between his eyebrows deepened as his gaze held mine, unwavering, while his hand hovered an inch from my arm, close enough that I felt its warmth but not its weight.
I nodded at him, grateful for a moment for my inability to speak—anything to not to have to voice my fears.
He ushered me forward and I could swear I’d felt the lightest brush of his lips on my hair when he’d stood up straight.
Glancing at him though, his focus was straight ahead—on the door in front of us.
The stairs took forever. Reed stayed beside me, one hand hovering near my elbow, his touch vacillating between hovering and a light brush—ready to catch me if I stumbled. By the time we reached my floor, I was breathing hard, ribs screaming, and we’d only had to pause twice.
He unlocked my door—already had a key, apparently—and held it open. I stepped inside, and stopped.
My apartment looked the same but different. The furniture hadn't moved. The photos on the walls were untouched. But there were changes everywhere.
In the kitchen, the counter was lined with protein shakes.
Not just a few bottles—at least a dozen different varieties.
Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, cookies and cream, coffee—was that fruity pebbles?
There were some brands I'd never seen, some that were familiar.
A brand-new Ninja blender sat beside them, shiny in its brand new state.
I was in awe, and I reached for the refrigerator door as he still hovered over me, protective instincts humming through him. I opened it to find a variety of premade shakes, broths in glass containers labeled with dates, electrolyte drinks, and—tubs of Greek yogurt?
On the counter: a basket of straws in different sizes. Insulated cups with easy-grip handles. Bottles of medications all lined up. Beside it, a printed chart showing what to take when. I turned slowly, cataloging everything.
Fresh flowers on the coffee table—simple daisies, nothing overly fragrant. A tablet stand positioned beside the couch. The couch had been moved, so instead of being parallel to the TV, it was now turned a bit—almost caddy-corner to it.
You moved the couch?
He blushed a bit, saying, “Yeah…I got a wedge pillow for the couch so you’d be comfortable,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But then you’d have to turn your head to watch TV, and that’d strain your ribs and shoulder, so…I moved it.”
At his explanation, I looked at the couch closer and noticed a complicated wedge thing positioned into the side of it and extra throw blankets and pillows were folded along the opposite side.
My fingers tapped away on my phone again.
You did all this?
Reed stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets now, as he watched my reaction.
"Wanted you to be comfortable." His voice cracked, suddenly shy.
It's too much.
"It's not enough."
I didn't know how to respond to that. Didn't know how to process the amount of thought that had gone into this. He hadn't just thrown together some basics. He'd considered everything. What I'd need. What would make things easier. What would help.
Where's your stuff?
"Lucas’s room. Want to see?"
I followed him down the short hallway. The bedroom door stood open. His duffel bag sat neatly in the corner. A few shirts hung in the closet. Toiletries organized on the dresser, but not spread out—contained.
"I can move to the couch if you'd rather," Reed said. "Or if you need me closer at night—"
Lucas’s room is fine.
He nodded. "Okay. Your room is—"
I rolled my eyes and smirked. I know where my room is.
But I let him follow me there anyway.
My bedroom looked mostly the same except for the additions: a wedge pillow on the bed for elevated sleeping. A heating pad plugged in and ready. A foot warmer—still in its package but placed deliberately at the foot of the bed.
Foot warmer?
"Well, I know your feet get cold at night. Thought it might help."
He'd remembered. Of course he had.
On my nightstand: photos of Lucas and Zoe in new frames. My phone charger with an extra-long cord so it would reach easily. A small nightlight plugged into the outlet.
I don't need a nightlight.
"In case you wake up disoriented. So you can see where you are."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say I didn't need any of this, that he was overstepping, that this was my apartment and he couldn't just come in and change things.
But I was staring at photos of my children, and my feet did get cold at night, and I'd woken up disoriented in the hospital more times than I could count. I sniffed, feeling tears burn my eyes.
Thank you.
Two words that didn't feel like enough but were all I had.
"You should rest," Reed said. "It's been a long morning."
Felicity's coming at six. Video call with the kids.
His expression shifted—surprise, then something that looked like pride.
"You're doing the call?"
You were right. They need to see me.
Then, I added: And I need to see them.
"Want me to help set it up?"
I nodded. That would be nice.
And then—breaking every post-op rule Dr. Pettit had given me—I forced out a strained, barely-there “Thanks.” It hurt like hell, but the moment called for my real voice.