Rowe (Henchmen MC Next Generation 4)

“What is it?”

“Tea,” she said.

“I get that. What kind of tea?”

“An anti-inflammatory one,” she told me. “The willow bark’s main ingredient is salicin which is known as ‘nature’s aspirin.’ Then there is some turmeric, that has been used in clinical trials to relieve joint pains. There is ginger which helps muscle pains, which can come with mobility difficulties. There is green and rooibos tea for anti-inflammatory properties. Lavender for the same reason, but also because it is calming. I will drop in some Earl Grey tea too, just for flavor reasons. The bergamot in it is pretty strong flavor-wise.”

“You want me to drink that?”

“Ideally, I would like you to drink this several times a day,” she said, nodding. “Which is why I am making a big batch of it. It will only be good for today and tomorrow morning, but if you feel it is helping, I can make you satchels to make your own. It needs to steep for a while though.”

“You really think that will help?” I asked, and my tone must have been more dubious than I planned because her chin lifted again.

“I’ve used it for pain. Granted, I’ve never had spinal fractures, but it is worth a try, don’t you think? Since your pain medicine is clearly not cutting it.”

Clearly. Did she say that because I was, admittedly, snippier than I should have been?

“I am also going to make you a salve. And a rice bag.”

“A what now?” I asked.

“A rice bag,” she repeated.

“And that is?”

“A bag of rice,” she said, and her lips twitched a bit. “You fill material with rice and some essential oils. Then you can freeze it or warm it in the microwave, then put it on the pain spot. Women have been using them for ages for cramps. The pressure can sometimes help pain. And if not that, then the heat or ice does, and it is more comfortable than having a hard ice pack on the spot.”

“Okay,” I said, shrugging, figuring that the rice bag and salve, at least, wouldn’t do any harm. I wasn’t sure I could say that about the tea. Not because the ingredients would be harmful, but because I wasn’t sure I could choke it down without throwing up.

“And maybe we can try some very gentle stretches. Malcolm said you weren’t going to physical therapy yet.”

“No.”

Billie was undeterred by my sharp tone.

“Why not?”

“It hurts, Billie. It fucking hurts.”

“What hurts?” she asked.

“Existing. Fucking sitting and standing and moving. It all fucking hurts.”

My voice sounded raw to my own ears. And, clearly, to Billie’s. Because one moment, she was in the kitchen, trying to keep her distance from me. The next, she was taking the seat directly to my side, reaching outward and covering both my hands with hers, her delicate fingers curling in, squeezing.

“You’ve been holding that in too long, huh?” she asked, those stormy eyes seeking my gaze.

“They want me to get better.”

“Rowe, it doesn’t matter what they want,” she told me, shaking her head. “I know you want to put on a brave face because you know they just want what is best for you. But what they want and how they feel have nothing at all to do with your recovery, okay? If you want to be a miserable sack of shit for a week, that’s your right. They don’t have to like it. And they don’t have to be around it. But you can’t lie to them or put on a brave face either. What are you accomplishing with that?”

“It makes them stop looking at me with pity.”

“I think you’re confusing empathy with pity. And that’s understandable. A lot of strong men confuse those two because they aren’t always taught the difference when they were little. But, trust me, it is different. Not a single person in our circle is pitying you. They feel sorry that you’re in pain and they want to help. But that is not pity.”

She was still holding my hands and I had this almost uncontrollable desire to turn my hands under hers, to entwine our fingers, to squeeze her hands back.

“Not everyone feels the same way you feel, babe. They don’t all see shit like you do.”

“Hey,” she said, voice a little firmer. “Who knows them better? Me, who grew up with all of them. Or you, who met them a couple years ago?” she asked, brows raising, daring me to contradict her.

“When Nave fell out of a tree and was in a leg cast up to his hip, they all came over, got him things, tried to help him out. Because they cared about him. Because they were empathetic to his situation. Not because they saw him as someone to pity.”

“I heard he is prospecting soon,” I said, wanting to change the subject. Billie might have been comfortable talking about shit like feelings, but that wasn’t how I’d been raised.