Page 58 of After We Fall

Craning his neck, he glances at the whiteboard on the other side of the room. The nurses update it every time they check on me. “You got this dose thirty minutes ago,” he murmurs. “Did she say where she was going?”

I close my eyes, trying to concentrate. Feathers of a memory tickle my consciousness. “Marcus. Something about finding Marcus.” Finley’s fear-filled face materializes in my mind. “She said she was sorry. She blames herself for my injuries.”

Since the administered medication, I’ve been enjoying a peaceful state of rest. But the sound of Luke’s grinding teeth frays the edges of my nerves.

“She said she wanted to make everything okay. She’s going to look for him.”

“Did she say where?”

I claw through my muddy memory. “Something about going to his boss.”

He leans over me, his hand holding my face, thumb skimming my cheek. “I got this, baby. You just rest.”

“Wait.” I exhale, trying to concentrate. “Luke, I don’t know this for sure, but Marcus might be working for a drug dealer.”

“I got this.”

“And Finley said Marcus’s friend has a gun.” This detail seems important. I squint, trying to make the memory focus. “No, maybe Marcus has a gun?” Yes, that seems important. “Wait. Do you have a gun?”

“Penelope—”

“Do you keep it in your underwear drawer?”

Luke quirks his lips just a bit. But an intensity emanates from him, seeping through the bedsheets and into my core. “You just focus on letting that beautiful, tenacious, brilliant brain of yours”—he kisses the top of my head—“heal. I’ll be back later.”

I graze a finger over the spot where he kissed me and sink into the leftover affection.

And as Luke prowls out of the room, the tentacles of Dilaudid draw me back into its sleepy cradle.

16

If I were perusing paintings in the Denver Museum of Art, I might think the strokes of blue, purple, and rusted red against the pale white background in front of me were beautiful. As it is, this particular masterpiece is the brushwork of the injury spattered across my face.

With one arm bound in a sling, I brace the opposite hand on the basin of the stainless steel sink and stare full-on into the hospital bathroom mirror. I opted to leave the glaring fluorescent bulbs off. But a ray of light beams through the small crack in the door, shooting a diagonal line down the reflection and splitting my face in half.

On the plus side, my vision is starting to clear. However, the tears pooling in my eyes now blur my view.

I draw a slow inhale through my nose, taking in the lemon-like fumes of hospital cleaning supplies, then exhale out my mouth.

I can do this.

With shaky movements, I reach for my purse to extract the makeup bag. This simple task takes an exorbitant amount of energy. Between my useless arm and the IV hep lock taped to the other hand, this is a perilous activity. Nonetheless, I need to apply the beginnings of my battle paint. If Meredith and Harlan come visit today, I don’t like the idea of being caught in the vulnerability of a hospital setting.

In the darkness of the room, I ignore my jittery hand and trace a path over my mouth with deep-red lipstick. My signature color. The only one I carry. A magazine article once promised me this particular shade spoke of confidence. I hope that’s true today. Once it’s applied, I attempt to rub my lips together, but my tight, swollen face protests. With my blurred vision, I don’t dare try to apply mascara. And applying cover-up might infect the cuts on my face. The lipstick will have to do.

After three tries, I successfully place the cap on the tube. When I glance in the mirror, I notice the halo of my untamed hair. Lovely.

Without the use of my bound arm, I won’t be able to tie my hair back into my usual taut ponytail. But maybe I can lean my weight into the sink for balance and somehow manage something more presentable.

With two sets of stitches to avoid, stroking through the tangles is more difficult than I anticipated.

On the third run through, my brush gets caught in a nest of snags. The harder I try to release it, the worse it becomes. My chest rises and falls with my frustration, and sweat breaks across my forehead.

This is ridiculous. I am ridiculous.

Two soft knocks sound through the cracked door. “Penelope? It’s Meredith.”

I close my eyes, but that causes me to sway. After opening them, I clutch the basin and steady both my body and my voice. “Hello, Meredith.”