Page 14 of Love JD

Silence stretched on the other end. Finally, Tristan barked, “What?”

Chapter four

Isla

I should have asked Robert to drag the couch over to the bathroom. Forget having it by the TV… every time I had to force myself off the couch to the bathroom, it was a laborious test of my pain tolerance. For one thing, yes, my ankle felt like it had been stabbed through with twenty kebab skewers, but that wasn’t the hardest part. I had scraped and bruised my body all over from my fall, and something about the experience had set off my dysautonomia in a horrible way. I had a migraine that came and went with lightning-bolt intensity, and my dumbass self hadn’t thought to ask anyone to buy me sports drinks before Robert had left. Also, we were mostly out of food. So, I had water, if I could manage to get to the kitchen, and I’d found an old box of saltines to munch on.

For me, that was the equivalent of medieval-level torture. I loved food. I wasn’t picky about what kind it was, usually, and the absence of it made me distinctly miserable. As a secondary problem—that likely should have been my primary concern—my condition worsened without food. It made me tired and dizzy.

I slept most of the day, taking breaks to work on my ECL 312 paper on thalli morphology. If I hadn’t fallen out of the damn tree, I could have taken a sample and looked at it under the microscope for comparison. Admittedly, I had been… kind of an idiot about that. I had a tendency to get tunnel vision when I was interested in something. I was pretty sure the internet had called it hyperfixation, but whatever it was, I had a way of zeroing in my focus on one thing and tuning out logic.

And that’s exactly what I did with my homework. I focused on the twenty-page paper that wasn’t due for another week, and I managed to finish my last section and my conclusion. Wanting to wrap it up, I kept my attention on double-checking my references and citations. It was a good paper—one of my better ones, and that was because I found the material fascinating. The changes in our environment could be seen in the little things, not just the global warming. The way lichen reacted to the air purity—or lack of it—had a bone-chilling, kind of prophetic feel to it.

I looked up from my computer and realized the day had waned from bright sunshine to golden hour, and I’d forgotten to eat. My head hammered, reminding me of that fact. Stupid. I knew better than to skip meals when my condition centered around my blood pressure and blood sugar dropping.

I stood stiffly from the couch, wincing against the stabbing pain in my eyes and gritting my teeth as white-hot pain shot up my ankle. I needed fresh air. I stumbled to the dining room, trying to keep off my ankle, and slammed heavily into the sliding glass door to our doormat-sized balcony. It had a metal railing and barely enough room for two people to stand side-by-side, but I found the mountain view soothing, and as the day dipped into night, I longed for the fresh air.

I slid it open and sucked in a welcoming breath. Some of the pain in my temples lessened, and I leaned against the railing gratefully. Below me, a car pulled into a visitor parking spot, and I watched a couple laugh and walk across the parking lot holding hands. Sighing, I absently wiggled my brace through the opening in the railing, wrinkling my nose at the pain that shot up my shin. It distracted me from the headache, though, so I kept it there and watched the sun set gradually.

Eventually, my headache receded, and my stomach growled obnoxiously. I needed to find some food. It was probably wisest to just order something and have them deliver it to my front door. I leaned back, hanging onto the railing so I could stretch out my shoulders with a groan.

Pop.

My boot shot through the railing with a blinding twist of pain, and I stumbled back. I threw out an arm, and my elbow caught the sliding glass door with an audible crack. Glass shattered. I went down heavily, falling without any way to stop my momentum, and my trapped boot yanked hard in the railing as I landed.

Glass tinkled around me, and black dots danced in my vision. I groaned and rolled onto my back, but the movement sent a whiplash of pain through my ankle, and I cried out, sitting up. Broken glass scattered off my body as I sat up, and I looked around in shocked dismay. “What the fuck?” I asked no one.

My brace looked to be stuck through the railing, and I gave it a cautious tug. Fire lanced through my ankle, foot, and leg, and with a harsh breath through my teeth, I gripped my knee like that would detract from the pain in my ankle. Unfortunately, I’d been wearing a flimsy jersey nightgown with a swooping, low back, and I felt little stinging cuts on my back and arms.

I twisted around to look at the patio door. Or what was left of it. The sliding door closest to me had shattered, apparently struck in just the right place by my elbow, and shards of glass had exploded everywhere.

A knock sounded on my front door. I leaned over, and from my spot on the balcony, I had a direct line of sight to it. Who on earth would be here now? I tugged my leg again, but the intense pain only made black dots billow out and block my vision. I let out a muted cry, curling in toward my throbbing leg. Stupid. So, so stupid.

The knock sounded again, more insistently. Whoever they were, their timing could not have been worse. It was probably a fellow student doing a dumbass survey for their marketing class. I ignored the door and leaned forward, fumbling with the boot. Maybe if I could undo all the Velcro, I could wiggle my foot out. But the pinching, insistent pain told me it would take a lot of unbearable wiggling to make that happen.

Something wet and warm slid down my back, and I froze. That had better be sweat.

The door shook as the person on the other side of it pounded it. “Isla!”

My insides turned to stone. “Oh my God,” I whispered. I twisted around again, dislodging glass from my shoulders and lap so I could look at the door. “Zev?” I hadn’t seen him since yesterday afternoon, and I had assumed he’d flown back home a long time ago.

“Isla, are you in there?” He slammed his fist against my door so hard, I was worried he’d break the only other entrance to my apartment.

“No, no, no,” I shrieked and pulled on my leg hard. Electric pain, burning and sharp, wrenched a sobbing cry from my throat. “Shit,” I hissed.

“I’m breaking down the door,” Zev yelled.

“No!” I shouted back. “No! Stop!”

My voice must have carried across to him because there was a pause, and then my phone rang. I’d left it on the coffee table in the living room. As it rang, Zev shouted, “Isla! Open the door!”

“I can’t!” I shouted back. “Go away!”

Another pause. Then, “Isla, you have three seconds…”

Groaning, I gave up and let my head fall to my knees. “Fuck my life,” I muttered.

To Zev’s credit, he did wait three seconds before slamming his tree-trunk body into my front door. The old, brittle doorframe splintered under the weight of his assault, and he stumbled through the front door and into the small living room. He swiveled his head around. “Isla?”

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