Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
“Come on, a little sunshine won’t kill you.” Wes tugged Miles’s arm, trying to get him to sit up.
The couch had become his home over the last couple of weeks.
Getting back and forth to the bedroom required too much effort, and after days of staring at the wall, the dresser, the mirror, his suit still hanging from the closet door, depression had set in.
At least in the living room, he could watch Wes coming and going, listen to the click of Nix’s nails, or watch the sun make its slow, inexorable path across the carpet until another night gave him the oblivion of a few hours of sleep.
“It could,” he groused.
“It won’t.”
Wes heaved him up, draping one arm over his shoulders and helping Miles limp toward the front door.
He’d left the apartment exactly once: for his follow-up appointment.
The ultrasound showed the damage in spectacular black and white detail.
He’d all but torn his thigh apart from within.
Shreds hung from the scar tissue still attached to the underside of his epidermis—his skin—the muscle itself ruptured nearly in two.
Where the bone had been plated back together, more residual tissue showed additional damage.
“The screws probably didn’t help,” the orthopedic surgeon had commented. “Neither did the load. Didn’t your PT tell you to wait?”
Of course, James had told him to wait, but he’d been so sure. He’d worked so hard...
Miles closed his eyes as Wes hefted him down the steps to where a wheelchair sat on the grass beside the sidewalk.
“No,” Miles said. “Take me back in.”
“No,” Wes echoed. “You need to get out.”
“I won’t ride in that.”
“I could push, and you could hold Nix’s leash. He needs a walk.”
“No.” Miles wouldn’t be budged, not even for Nix. “I’ll throw a ball.”
“Sure,” Wes replied. “Just as soon as you can get over there.”
“Jerk.”
Wes grumbled something that sounded like a self-pitying idiot, but slowly lowered Miles until he perched on the edge of the third step.
Miles ignored him. His friend could try to jolt him out of his depressive spiral all he wanted, but he probably wouldn’t succeed.
“Call me whatever you want,” Wes finally huffed, sinking to the stairs beside him. “But you’re staying outside for fifteen minutes.”
Miles hated the wheelchair. He’d hated it at the rehab hospital last winter, and he hated it even more now, when it had come home with him. He lived on the second floor, for heaven’s sake. What use would it be to him, trapped in his apartment, anyway?
Nix whuffled at Miles’s ear as he pushed past them, then buried his nose in the grass beside the handrail.
Checking his pee-mail.
“Have you heard from Jif?”
“Couple times, yeah.”
“You call her back?”
Miles sighed. “No.”
Wes shook his head. “Why not, man?”
Miles couldn’t do this right now. Not even with Wes.
He closed his eyes and shook his head. How could his friend ever understand losing not only everything about himself that made him him, but also losing the woman he loved, as well?
He’d been through it once. He wouldn’t let it happen again.
If Tessa—loyal, loving, committed—hadn’t stayed, how could he possibly believe Jif would?
“You made a mistake sending her away.”
“You don’t know her,” Miles said. “She wouldn’t have stuck around for long even if I hadn’t.”
If he kept repeating the words, maybe he might eventually believe them.
Wes stretched his legs out in front of him. “Whatever.”
Nix ambled back from his sniffing and buried his muzzle in Miles’s lap, demanding ear scratches. He turned his head, pressing the right side of his face hard into Miles’s left hand.
“Cut it out, boy,” Miles scolded as the pressure sent a spike of pain through his thigh. When the dog didn’t, Miles pushed him away. “I said no.”
Backing up, Nix dropped his head at the scolding, his tail fidgeting back and forth, low and nervous, then he turned away, snuffling the grass again.
“Geez, man, you keep pushing your friends away, you’re not gonna have any left.”
Wes rose, trailing Nix toward the verge running along the fence at the edge of the apartment property. Kicking at a hummock, he unearthed a dirty old tennis ball, scooping it up before Nix could steal it.
“Nix, here, boy!”
Wes waggled the ball at the dog, then tossed it, letting Nix chase it down.
Miles sank his head into his hands. After his first stint in the rehab center, he’d been unable to walk Nix, but he could hobble down the stairs and out to the fence line.
Throwing the ball had been the only way to keep Nix busy and active, though his therapy work had helped take the edge off, as well.
Body work and brain work, Abby had explained early on when he’d struggled with Nix getting into trouble in the aftermath of his injury. He needs both.
Therapy work kept his brain busy, paying attention, reading his audience, and behaving in public. Chasing the ball kept his body busy when a walk couldn’t.
Now, he had no brain work to rely on, and tiring his body took twice as long.
If not for Wes, he wouldn’t get out at all. His best friend had taken time off to help take care of him, and Miles couldn’t even gather the basic decency not to snap at him.
Wes deserved better. He’d been a brother to Miles, replacing the one he’d lost when his mom had moved to Texas, taking Clark, three years his junior, with her.
Clark now lived in Oklahoma City with a wife and kid, information he only had because of his mother’s annual Christmas cards.
Wes returned, leaving Nix lying in the grass, chewing the shredded tennis ball.
He offered an arm to Miles and pulled him unsteadily to his feet, then turned them both and started the long climb back up to Miles’s apartment.
“Sorry. I should be saying thank you, not sniping at you.”
Wes shrugged, Miles’s own arm rising and falling with the motion as it rested across his friend’s shoulders. “You’ve been through hell. Twice. I’d be bad-tempered, too, but Nix doesn’t understand.”
“You’re right.” Forcing a deep breath into his lungs, he exhaled his frustration and anger, then snapped his fingers. “Nix, come!”
The dog’s ears came up, his head tipping to one side, then he snatched the ball and ran toward them, lean muscles rippling, tail wagging happily, dancing around them, and butting his head against Miles’s leg.
Miles gritted his teeth and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Easy, boy.”
Wes helped him back into his apartment, and he slowly lowered himself onto the couch, hissing when Wes lifted his injured leg into place.
Nix jumped up and draped himself over Miles’s chest. The dog hadn’t taken long to pattern the new behavior. Avoid Miles’s leg. Down right away. Head resting on Miles’s shoulder, between his ear and the couch back.
“Pet your dog,” Wes ordered. “I’ll make dinner, and then you can call Jif.”
Miles closed his eyes. He’d said sorry, but he wouldn’t let Wes bully him into making a poor decision, and arguing wouldn’t change his mind.
No one and nothing could make him call Jif. Only heartache lay that way.