Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
I sit in the new bed, feeling lost and alone. The bandage across my ribs itches like hell, but I won’t touch it—not after the scolding I got on the way here for trying to stick my fingers inside and scratch the flesh there. I am only grateful for the fact that my mom is here, because if she wasn’t, I really don’t know how I could breathe.
She is in the adjoining room with the doctor, speaking in a soft, professional voice—the one she never once used on me. I can hear her, through the glass, saying things like “trauma history” and “No, father is not to be informed of the patient’s location.” Every syllable lands like a punch to the chest, and I close my eyes, trying not to think of how this moment will impact the rest of my life.
My mom’s phone, which is in front of me, rings.
She took mine after I begged her to.
I just can’t face the calls, the messages, and everything else that will be flashing across that screen.
I see Reagan’s name and answer it. “Reagan?”
“Violet?” she croaks, and I can hear the pain in her voice. “Oh, Vi. Thank fuck.”
“I’m okay,” I say. The words struggle up my throat, raw and half-formed, like they’re learning to walk. “I’m—I’m here.”
“I can’t believe that happened. Honey, I am so sorry I wasn’t there. What is happening? Where will you be going?”
“I’m just in a different hospital, but...I don’t think I’ll come back, Reagan. I can’t...”
“I figured as much. You have been through it. Does...does Travis know?”
“He tried to see me when I left,” I close my eyes, the pain soul-crushing. “He was screaming. Outside the ambulance. They wouldn’t let him in. He just kept screaming my name, and I—” I bite down on the sound.
It would be so easy to start sobbing and never stop.
“Oh. That’s rough, honey.”
“I saw his face,” I say, “before they slammed the door. He was on his knees.” I squeeze my eyes shut again, chasing away the world. “Part of me wanted them to stop. To let him in. You know?”
“Of course. You’re the softest hardass I’ve ever met,” Reagan says. But her voice is a blanket now, and the sarcasm just something to hide how much she’s struggling, too.
“I can’t go back there, Rea. Ever. I can’t. It would kill me.”
She makes a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. “You don’t have to. I’ll come there. Say the word. We will work this out, together.”
“Not yet. I just—” I look at my hand, IV line running from it. “I need to not be somebody else’s problem for a minute. Okay?”
Reagan is quiet, then she says carefully, “You’re not. You never were. But I understand. When you’re ready, honey, you know I’m there.”
I know.
I always know she will be there.
We talk a while longer, then say goodbye and I hang up. My mother is watching me from the door. There is a coffee in her hand, and her shoes are off, and she looks so tired I want to tell her to go sleep. Instead, I ask the question that’s been gathering inside my ribcage since the ambulance.
“Am I making the wrong choice?”
She walks over, sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “No, honey,” she says. “You’re not. You need time to figure out who you want to be next. You have been through so much. You need time.”
I nod. It’s not comfort, not exactly, but it is something.
She eventually leaves me when the painkillers kick in. I roll onto my side, cradling the hollowness where my heart used to be. I wonder if the part of me that loved Travis will ever stop bleeding.
I don’t dream.
The body is smarter than the mind sometimes; it knows better than to go back to a place that feels like dying. When I wake, it is nearly night again, and my mother is asleep on the vinyl recliner with a blanket wrapped around her knees.
They say that pain means you’re alive.
I count my breaths and try to believe it.
2
Two Years Later
The second floor of the Blackbird Café is my own personal heaven, with its lush sofas, elegant decorations, and the best coffee in town. Reagan sips her iced latte, then flicks an ice cube at me, but it misses and instead hits my cup hard enough to send it spiraling toward me. It spins, grazing the edge of my laptop, and we both yelp, but I catch it just in time.
The barista looks over at us, not at all unfamiliar with our shenanigans.
Reagan is already laughing, legs curled up under her in a way that would horrify all the skirt-wearing law clerks at my firm. “You’re lucky you’re quick.”
“If you stopped flicking things at me and just acted normal, we wouldn’t have to worry about that,” I say lightly, grinning.