Page 150 of Crash Course
"Of course."
While Cilla sat up, Mom walked to the switch beside the windows and tapped it, allowing the curtains to slide open a few inches. Afternoon sun squeaked in, illuminating the room just enough for Cilla to navigate it without tripping on something.
"That’s perfect. Thanks. I need to use the bathroom."
Mom, being Mom, stood by while Cilla levered out of bed, grabbed her phone from the nightstand, and made her way to the bathroom.
Before leaving the hospital that morning, Cilla had faced the mirror, seeing only a large surgical bandage with a few spots of blood, at which point, she’d asked a nurse to change the dressing. Intellectually, she understood twenty stitches currently held together her cheek. All done by her plastic surgeon client who'd informed her that they’d deal with the scarring once the stitches came out. One step at a time.
Cilla further understood that in the next few hours, based on doctor’s orders, she’d have to remove the bandage and allow the wound to air. At which point, those stitches and the angry red skin would be on full display.
One thing at a time.
That’s all she could do. For now, that one thing would be rest. The more rest, the sooner she’d be back to work.
Lucky her, the stitches were to be removed in five days. In less than a week, assuming the concussion didn’t hold her down and she didn't need to request a continuance, she’d be back at work with a healing wound and scar that would completely distract a jury.
Can’t worry about it.
Not now, anyway.
Cilla flushed the toilet and made her way to the sink where she focused on pumping soap—three pumps—into her hands and washing them. The rhythmic movement was a welcome distraction until she rinsed, dried off and found the nerve to face herself in the mirror.
Lying flat had mashed her hair in the back, but the top was lumpy and somewhat mangled compared to her normally sleek strands. Mom had washed her hair for her that morning. No easy feat when trying to keep her bandage dry and the roar of the blow dryer had nearly sent Cilla to her knees. They’d done their best to towel dry it and Cilla had gone to bed with a half-wet head.
Now she looked like a straggly mess.
Lord, this is what Cruz saw when he’d come by earlier. Well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her first thing in the morning. Nevertheless, between the bandage and her hair?
Awful.
Despite being more than a little peeved at him for punching her father, they were still in the phase of her wanting to be . . . attractive. Pulled together.
Instinctively, she picked up her brush and held it.
She should do it. Run it through her hair and at least try to fix the rat’s nest on top of her head.
Except . . . no.
Given what her father had done, he’d lost the privilege of seeing her at her best. Like her, he’d have to face the fallout of his actions.
The doorbell rang just as Cilla reached the living room. Spotting her, Mom halted on her way to the door, her gaze zooming right to Cilla’s hair.
"I know," Cilla said. "I’m a mess. I don’t care."
Mom shook her head. "You look fine. More than fine. Are you all right?"
"I’m as all right as I’m going to be." Cilla gestured to the door. "Let’s get this over with."
"Do you want me to wait in your office?"
Since the divorce, Cilla could count on one hand the number of times her parents had been in the same room together. Mom had long since moved on with her life, finding happiness out west, while her father hadn’t.
He’d spent the last twenty years serial dating women just old enough to drink. All of which Cilla felt fairly certain was some sort of twisted message to Mom about his ability to still attract young, beautiful women.
Of course, his money helped, but Cilla veered from stating the obvious.
"Please stay," Cilla said. "Let him squirm."
