by Emilia Finn
I don’t accept her hands. I don’t accept shit except my own incompetence and the fact I’m unworthy of knowing such an amazing woman. Instead, I disengage the wheelchair brakes and back away. When there’s enough space that my chair won’t smack her legs, I turn it around and swallow the squeak as punishment for being an asshole.
I don’t clean the kitchen. I don’t stop in the laundry to get the broom.
I don’t even ask why the fuck there’s a pig on my guest bed when I pass.
I just collect my bag of meds, wheel to my room at the top of the hall, and close the door. Stupidly, I leave my crutches in the living room, so I won’t be practicing tonight.
Grabbing the TV remote on the way past my dressing table, I toss it and my bag of meds onto the bed, then I wheel into my bathroom and swallow my rage at the sight of an old folk’s chair in the shower.
A fucking chair!
I don’t stick around to explore my new space the way a kid might explore their new playground. I don’t stop and marvel at the new showerhead, or the handles by the toilet, or the fucking seatbelt, just in case I might fall off. I grab a clean glass from the sink and fill it with water, then one handed, I wheel back into my room and set it on the bedside table.
Restarting the process, I prepare my remaining leg to lift my weight, hold onto the chair with one hand, and my tightly tucked in bedspread with the other. Pulling myself up with a grunt, I balance on one foot and breathe through the wooziness.
It shouldn’t be this hard. Everyone can balance on one leg. Everyone can hop. Hell, I’ve been squatting and lifting on one leg at a time for years, so why is it so difficult now?
Because everything is different. Everything is broken, and the woman I care the most about is alone in my living room right now, probably cleaning my mess, or crying because I hurt her.
This is miserable for everyone involved; most of all Andi.
The woman that just wanted a little fun, now feels obligated to help her cripple friend.
It was the most expensive sex she’s ever had.
I had to crawl onto my bed – literally. Holding the covers in a tight fist and dragging myself up, the fire in my belly hurt so much, I worried I’d need to crawl back off again and into the bathroom. Bile rose in my throat, and dots floated in front of my eyes. Dizzy from blood loss, dizzy from lack of the nutrition my body knows, dizzy from the shitty drugs they’ve pumped through my veins the last three weeks, I’ve found myself weak as a baby, and nostalgic for the strong body I spent so long training up to become a machine.
It took a whole hour after I slammed my bedroom door to work up the energy to flip the TV on, and another forty-five minutes to breathe through the pain that radiates through my body. It’s like a circuit of death, a fiery inferno that slides just beneath my skin and refuses to give me relief: my leg, my stomach, my leg, then a detour through my heart for good measure and to remind me she’s so fucking close.
She’s in this house.
All I have to do is call out and ask for a fucking hug.
With the TV remote in one hand, and a pillow beneath my left leg, I lie back against the headboard and will the pain to go away. I barely look at my leg, I don’t see the black brace, or the swelling at the end.
But I feel the throbbing, and not even CHiPs reruns can distract me.
What feels like hours after I came in here, Ninja hesitantly pokes her head out of my closet and draws my attention to the doorway. Her short fur bristles as she watches me. Her golden eyes scan the room and continuously stop on my leg.
Seeing her forces a clamp around my heart, it holds on tight and squeezes until I can barely catch my breath. It’s so lonely in my room, so quiet and depressing knowing Andi is so close, so touchable if only I could be brave, so comforting, if only I would let her be.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to call out.
So instead, Ninja’s watchful eyes and her motor-like purring bring me to the edge of my overworked emotions, forcing tears to my eyes and a wild gallop to my heart. “Come here, Ninj. Come on.” I pat my bed and grit my teeth when the vibrations turns to throbbing in my leg. “Come over here, Ninja.”
I’ve swallowed my allocated meds for the afternoon, and the temptation to take more when the bag sits right beside my leg is too much. It would be so simple. It would be blissfully pain free. Three weeks ago, moments after the fire in my belly, I slid into what felt like a warm bath; I thought of Andi, I slid right in, and I smiled while I floated.
That’s what it would be like again.
Hell, Andi’s right here, closer now than she was the night I was hurt, so her close proximity could only help. I could finally sleep, I could rest, and I bet in Heaven, I’d have two legs.
I’d be able to watch over her. I could live her life with her, watching her crazy, flighty, impulsive schemes. I could be her guardian angel, so every time she took it too far – because she will always be the person that’ll take things too far – I could step in and save her. And all the while, I could watch her grow old, I could watch her flourish, and patiently wait for her to join me.
My cell vibrates in my pocket and draws me out of my half-asleep haze. I’ve been plagued by insomnia since I woke in the hospital, like my time under had left me rested enough for the rest of the year.
Exhausted during the day.
Wired up and overthinking at night.
But finally, back in my own room and thinking of Dee, I was on the verge of dozing off before the cell brings me back to my harsh new reality. Knowing it’s not her, but still wishing for some strange reason that she’d call, I yank the cell from my pocket and unlock the screen in a matter of seconds. My racing heart slows and disappointment washes through my blood when it’s not her.
Oz: Is Andi at your house? I tried to call her, but she won’t answer. Lindsi’s starting to worry.
I want to ignore him. I don’t want to give a fuck about him or his wife’s worry, but I give all my fuck’s for Dee, and since this is about her, I reply: Yes.
I could expand, I could tell him she’s safe and happy, but that would be a lie. She’s neither safe nor happy. She’s crying and bleeding. And I’m an asshole that deserves a fucking beatdown because I was the cause for both.
Me: You need to come and get her out of my house. I don’t want her here.
Oz: Ha! Yeah right. I’m pretty sure she’s claiming squatter rights at this point. Good luck with your pest problem. And don’t touch the pig. She doesn’t like men.
I mean, I guess it’s good to know the pig didn’t just let herself in and start squatting, too. Andi brought her, because Andi’s always had balls of steel and zero care for what anyone else thinks. Bringing a pig into someone’s home wouldn’t even register in her brain as somewhat inappropriate.
The soft heart in me wants to meet the pig. To introduce her to Ninja, and to talk to someone other than the ugly asshole inside me that whispers I’m a freak now that I’m missing half my body. He whispers how my presence drags Andi down, how having a man in a wheelchair is possibly the worst thing that could ever happen to her.
So instead of calling out, and instead of texting her to come to me, I pat the bed once more and coax Ninja up until I have a warm body beside mine and a heartbeat beneath my hand.
My afternoon passes slowly, torturously slow, and without the sleep I was so close to touching before Oz’s text. Ninja purrs beside me, and the guys on TV make jokes. Odd piggy snorts echo in the hall, and pots and pans clang together in the kitchen until I’m sure sirens will wail in the air at some point this afternoon.
Hours and hours pass, but Andi doesn’t come to my room once. And though I know I’d be angry if she does – because my weakness is shameful, and seeing me will only remind her how low I’ve sunk – there’s still the contradictory part of me that wishes she would. She could lie against my right side, run her nails over my belly, and rest her head on my chest. Or better yet, I could rest mine on her chest, and since I won’t have to s
tand, we could pretend nothing has changed. I could play with hair, tell her how I feel, explain why I’m so angry and can’t seem to shake it.
I won’t shake it. Because it’s best if she stays away.
But she doesn’t come to my room. And I don’t go out there.
I thought leaving the hospital would give me a type of freedom, a comfort only home could provide, but all I’ve managed to do is isolate myself in my bedroom with a full bladder, no crutches, a deep yearning to call Andi in, and a chance to beg for her back.
Give me a day to pretend. That’s all I want. One more day. Hell, five more minutes. I’ll take anything, because it’s better than sitting in here all alone with a broken spirit.
“Riley?” Andi knocks on my bedroom door at six on the dot, but she doesn’t open it. For the first time ever, she doesn’t barge in or invade my privacy. She knocks again, harder than the first time, but not super loud. “Hey, Riley, you awake in there?”
“Yeah.” My heart races at her nearness, but on the outside, I’m cool as a fucking cucumber, still angry with the world, still pissed she helped herself to my home. Muting the TV and tossing the remote down, I scratch Ninja’s ears and hold her close when her head snaps up with curiosity.
I don’t think I could survive Ninja running into the hall and leaving me here all alone. In a minute, Dee will have said what she needs to say, then she’ll leave again, closing the door and ensuring Ninja can’t sneak back in unless I can get my crippled ass out of bed to let her in.
So I don’t risk it. I hold her close and silently apologize when my arm touches her bandaged tail and her purring turns to a menacing growl. She’s going to tear me apart just as surely as Dee intends to, then they’ll leave me alone to wallow in my own filth.
Shyly, Dee cracks the door open and peeks through the one inch gap. The first thing I see are her electric blue eyes – they were the first thing I saw the night I met her, too. They were the first thing that drew me in and declared my heart would never be the same again. When her eyes scour my face and she’s sure I’m not going to blow up at her presence, she opens the door the rest of the way and walks in with a tray of covered bowls.
“Hey.” She nervously clears her throat. “Uh… I made you dinner.” Stopping at the end of my bed, the bed we made love in, the bed I tasted every inch of her skin and stroked her milky white flesh from her pert little nose right down to her feet. Like she doesn’t even notice the significance, she sets the tray on the opposite corner with shaking hands and takes a step back.
I’ve officially terrified her.
Nobody scares Andi Conner, and yet, her hands shake because of me. “It’s hot soup.” Her eyes meet mine. “I swear to God, if you throw it at me, I’m done.” Her blue eyes blaze. “I’m not playing, Riley. I get you’re in a bad space, I get you’re hurt and scared, and I know you’re in pain. I’m up in your space, and I definitely got the memo about how you don’t want me here. I get it, okay? But if you throw boiling soup at me, I’m out. I will not be a victim of abuse. Grabbing me by the shirt collar was bad. You hurt me. You scared me, because for a single second, I couldn’t breathe. And then you followed it up with throwing your glass. So now we’re at an impasse, and you’re straddling the line between needing help, and needing a baseball bat to the skull. Do you understand me?”
She stands tall and watches my eyes. She doesn’t let her gaze wander down my leg again. She knows I don’t want her to see, even if it’s covered by sweatpants.
Clasping my hands together in a nervous tic I never had before this moment, I can barely hold my head up under the shame of my actions. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Dee.”
She lifts a single brow and nudges the tray an inch closer. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Sorry doesn’t mean shit in my world, because my arm still has a cut, my shirt is still stretched, and I still found myself standing outside your door for five minutes just now, willing your soup to cool faster, just in case you threw it in my face.” Jab. Jab. Jab. Precise and lethal. “Don’t do it again.”
I swallow. “I swear I won’t.”
“Good.” She pushes the tray close enough that it almost touches my hip. “Eat. It’s chicken soup, and I followed the exact instructions taped inside your pantry door. It’s your momma’s soup, and a good man I used to know said it heals.” Jab. Jab. Jab. “I baked the bread, too. None of this is laced with dope, I promise, though I bet you wish you could get high right about now.”
Little bit.
Like she can read my mind, she relaxes with a smirk and leans against the end of the bed. “Maybe soon. I feel like we could both do with a little mellowing out.”
She folds her arms over her chest and changes the tone in the room. From fear, to jokes, to business. “Okay, so here’s how this is going down; you have a bum leg, and I have invested feelings to stay and help you. I’m not leaving just because you’re in a bad mood, so you can yell and cry and act like a baby all you want, but I’m sticking. If you cross the line into abuse, I’m out and you’ll never see me again. I nearly lost Lindsi because her man felt like it was his duty to hurt women, so you picked the wrong woman to gaslight. You’ve been warned; she executed that man, and she’s the nicer cousin in our duo.”
Like she’s waiting on my acknowledgment, she lifts a brow and continues only after I nod. “I’m staying in your home until I feel like you’re all better. I’ll sleep in the guest bedroom, so you don’t have to worry about me being all up in your space at night.” She gives a dainty little shrug. “I mean, I intend to be up in your space all day, but at night when you need privacy, I’ll give it to you. I won’t be an annoying houseguest; I’m not one of those clinger girls, so don’t fret. Oh, and also, I have a pet pig. Her name is Nacho, she’s litter trained, and usually eats from the table, but she won’t be a bother for you. I expect to be informed of your physical therapy appointments, and then I’ll escort you to them. I want a part in your recovery. I’m going to help you walk again, and when you take your first steps, I want the first high-five.” Her eyes flash with anger. “You have no clue how fucking pissed I’ll be if you give it to your cute therapist with the tight ass and smirky-smirk. Don’t test me on this if you want to live. Do you have any questions so far?”
“Umm…”
“Good.” She reaches into her back pocket and yanks out a charger cable for my cell. “Yours will die soon, but I want your stubborn ass to still be able to call someone if you need help. Or, ya know, text me. I’ll be in the next room waiting.” She tosses the cord down beside the bag of meds. “You’ve been in this room for hours with those, and you’re neither stoned, nor are you dead, so I think I can trust you to administer them yourself. If you’d rather I helped, or if you aren’t feeling so well, that’s okay, tell me. I’ll help. I ransacked your bags while you’ve been in here sulking, and I found the paperwork from your surgeon and your schedule for upcoming appointments; you’re due to be casted for prosthesis eleven days from now.”
I cough to clear the nerves from my throat. “I think that’s too soon. Right?” For the first time since this began, I’m asking a legitimate question about my recovery. “I feel like it’s way too soon.”
“It’s not. We’re going to keep up with your physical therapy every single day, get you ready for it. I know the hospital will have sent you home with shrinkers.”
“Shrinkers?”
She nods toward my leg. “The super tight sock holding you all in. I bought more for you yesterday, and have more coming in the mail, since they’re cheaper online. We keep them on all the time; they help, I promise. Eleven days from now, a lot of your swelling will have gone down, which means you’ll be ready.”
“But eleven days is so soon.” I’m still in so much fucking pain, I can hardly sit in front of her right now and not break down from the fire in my veins. But they want me to stand and walk in eleven days?
“No.” She lifts one knee and rests it on my bed. She’s not scared of me anymore. She’s hitt
ing her stubborn stride and has forgotten to be afraid. “You’re being casted in eleven days, but it’ll take a few weeks from then to be made. You’ll be eight or so weeks post-op before you’re standing in it.”
“Do I have to?”
Pausing, she tilts her head to the side. She’s so fucking beautiful, it makes me sick. “Do you have to, what?”
“Get a prosthetic?”
Her eyes narrow. “Ah… I mean, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t. Would you prefer to be in a wheelchair for the rest of your life? On crutches? Scoot on your butt?” Is she waiting for me to shake my head? “Prosthetic technology has come so far the last few years. When you wear it with pants, no one will know anything is different. Your gait will be natural, the materials they make them from are much better now, lighter, easier to work with, so you won’t be weighed down on one side. You still have your knee, so we don’t have to worry about mechanical knees sticking or jamming up.” Her eyes blaze with hope. “You’ll be able to run again, Riley. The only thing that’ll hold you back is you; not your leg. So I guess, the right answer is yes. Yes, you’ll want a prosthetic, and yes, you’ll want to get up again, as fast as possible. Are you in pain right now?”
I shake my head.
She smirks. “Liar. You know how I know? Because I can see the pain in your eyes. Now try again, and don’t be a hero; there’s no one here to impress. Are you in pain right now?”
“If you already know, then why the fuck are you asking? Do you wanna hear me bitch out loud? Do you like hearing me cry and admitting my weaknesses?”
“No.” She lowers her leg and moves back half a step. “I want you to talk to me, I want you to communicate, because I can’t read your mind.” She points at her chest. “I’m just Andi, just a person, just a friend. I’m not your doctor, not your boss, and not your nurse, which means I’m already at a disadvantage. I want real answers, because I want to help you.” Her eyes soften. “You don’t have to be in pain. I’ve been researching the last couple days. I have a notebook full of shit we can try to bring your pain under control.”
