I feel tired and my arm throbs in any position. It has already started swelling. Max, as expected, hardly acknowledges me upon entering the bedroom. He’s still sour about our argument yesterday. I knew he would be. “I slipped at work.” I hold up my arm. He glances over at it. “It’s broken.” “Are you okay?” I’m surprised that he is asking. He comes over, his brow crumpled with concern. “I will be. It hurts.” His fingers gently trail over the dark blue splint. “Why didn’t you call me?” “Would you have cared?” Sharp eyes hit mine, accusation in their depths. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” “Nothing,” I mumble, not in the mood for an argument. I now know what it means to be emotionally spent. The thought of even feeling a zap of anger or annoyance, or anything really, makes me want to curl up and sleep.
