Eventually, when she insists she’s not risking me flatlining just for a make-out session, she pulls back with a grin and pats the end of my bed. Mr. Bubbles hops up obediently, spins in three tight circles like he’s been training for this exact moment, and flops down with a dramatic sigh.
“Okay,” Peyton says, nudging the wicker basket toward me, a glint in her eye. “Wanna see what I got you?”
I nod, scooting to the edge of the bed. “What is all that?” I laugh, eyeing the basket and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Well, at first I was just going to get you some hot chocolate—dairy free,obviously—but then I kept finding more stuff, and…” She gestures to the beast of wicker.“Yeah.”
She plops the massive thing onto the chair. I shake my head, still confused.
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head. The light catches the flecks in her eyes as she stares down at me with a challenging grin.
“Why not?”
She proceeds to pull out each item, one at a time, holding them up and announcing them like she’s filming a YouTube video.
“Okay, first, like I said—” She holds up a giant container of dairy-free hot cocoa powder. “With extra marshmallows, ofcourse. Then,” she reaches back into the basket, “they had likesevendifferent kinds of pain reliever cream and I wasn’t sure which one was the best, so I got all of them.And,” she pulls out a collection of items this time, dropping them onto my quilt, “heating pad, freezer gel packs, epsom salts, glittery pink nail polish—”
“Is that ajar of peanut butter?” I ask, quirking a brow. She nods, holding it up like a trophy.
“Yes.”
My eyes drop into the mess of the basket. Items are piled over one another, an intricate mess of everything that is me. But my eyes lock onto one item in particular. It’s pink and metallic, and I have no idea what it is. I tilt my head, pointing to it.
“What is that?” I question.
Peyton’s eyes fall to the basket, then a giant grin conquers her face. She pulls out the object and hops off the bed, presenting it to me like a show-woman.
“This,”she starts, grabbing one of the folded metal rods and snapping it in place. After she secures the second one and rotates it vertically, the realization hits me.
“You didnotget me a cane,” I say defensively, crossing my arms. Peyton’s grin falters, a valley forming between her brows.
“Okay, just listen,” she explains, but I’m already shaking my head. “I read online that canes can really help with the pain, and—”
I cut in, firmer this time. “Peyton, I amnotusing a cane.”
I should know better, by now, that nothing I say will ever deter Peyton Clarke from speaking her mind. She looks me up and down, propping a hand on her hip. “Do you enjoy making yourself miserable?”
I scoff. “I am not making myself miserable. I just—”
“Okay, riddle me this, Kimberly,” she interrupts. I roll my eyes. “If I had a fever, and I refused to take Tylenol, would you not question my intelligence?”
“I—” I start, but nothing else comes out. Because yes, I would. I sigh. “Okay, yes, but—”
“But nothing,” she shoots, clapping her hands. “We both know you’re not going to be able to get surgery until you heal from your—whatever this is.You’re going to need something to help you in the meantime. So stand up.”
“Peyton, I really don’t want to—”
When she cuts me off with a grating meow, I have no choice but to comply. I pull myself off the bed, the ache echoing in my chest when my socked feet hit the cold tile. My tubes tug slightly, like the wires of her earbuds, and she rounds the other side of the bed, pulling my IV pole along with me.
“Okay fine,” I huff, gesturing to her face. “Just stop meowing.”
Peyton beams proudly. I add, “You know you’re annoying as hell?”
Her grin widens. “Yes,” she answers, handing the cane over to me and taking a step back. “All I’m asking is for you to try it out. If it doesn’t help, we never speak of it again.”
I stare at her, processing. This moment, right here, kind of reminds me of Cleo, pushing me to take the coaching position. It’s crazy to think about what I would be doing instead if I hadn’t. To know that I wouldn’t be here, with Peyton. And because of that, I try.
The foam padding is cool in my hand, brand new and uncreased. I watch the material crinkle when my grip tightens around it. At first, I just hold it, staring at Peyton with annoyance. She leans against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest.