Chapter 32 - Oak
thirty two-Oak
Six months later.
The beige walls of the rehab center felt like they were closing in on me today, making it hard to breathe.
I dropped my head into my hands, rubbing my temples as a fresh wave of frustration washed over me as I sat in my wheelchair, staring down at my fucking useless legs.
My physical therapist, Michelle, a plump, middle-aged woman, stood in front of me with her clipboard tucked under her arm, giving me another one of her “You have to be patient” speeches.
Patience?
Fuck patience. Patience felt like a luxury for people who could still feel the ground beneath their feet. What I wanted was to stand on my own.
I wanted to walk again. I wanted my dick to work like it used to.
The memory of the accident flashed behind my eyes, and my jaw clenched so tight it ached. If the motherfucker who hit me hadn’t killed himself, I would’ve done it for him.
A familiar, cold pressure began to crush my chest, making each breath a conscious effort. My throat felt thick.
“This is bullshit,” I snapped, slamming my palm against the armrest. “I should be walking by now. Why the fuck am I not walking?”
Michelle inhaled slowly, like she needed to borrow calm from the air around her.
“Oak, you were in a serious car accident. Multiple fractures in your femur. A crushed kneecap. Spinal trauma. You’re making progress—but it takes time.”
I ground my teeth. “Not fast enough.”
“Pushing too hard will set you back.”
I rolled my eyes. “Then maybe I should just quit.”
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t flinch the way I wanted her to.
“That’s your choice.”
I grabbed the wheels and shoved myself backward. I didn’t want to do this shit today. My body hurt. My pride hurt. Everything fucking hurt.
And on top of that—
The door to the workout room opened, and I already knew who it was before I looked.
Jordin.
And him.
Fucking Ciarán.
My whole body coiled. It always did when I saw them together.
Seeing them was like someone picking at one of my open wounds over and over with a smile.
For six months, Jordin had been by my side daily, and he was always by her side. The irony was a bitter pill I had to swallow daily. Wasn’t it both funny and pitiful? My wife and her boyfriend.
I turned myself around to watch them walk my way.
Jordin looked good. Too good.
She wore a flowy white dress, and looking at her still made my chest ache.
She always looked good. I remembered when just seeing her would make my dick hard as a diamond.
Now it just lay across my thigh—dead weight.
And next to her, standing too fucking close, was him.
We hadn’t talked about him.
We talked about everything—her staying in Tampa until I was better, her making Miami her permanent residence, about postponing the divorce until I was better.
But we never talked about him and who he was to her.
I didn’t even dislike the guy.
He was personable and funny.
But it was the way he looked at Jordin that undid me—with a kind of reverent awe, as if she single-handedly held the stars in place. I understood that feeling. I remembered the gravitational pull of her, the way my own world used to orbit around her smile.
What I didn’t understand was, if he was her present—if he was the man who shared her bed and her life in Miami—why was she still here, pouring her energy into me, into her past?
Why was he letting her? It felt less like kindness and more like a special kind of torture, forcing me to witness the happiness I’d forfeited.
Ciarán strolled ahead of her, dressed in designer sweats and that smug-ass smirk.
“Michelle, how are you doing, beautiful?”
His voice was smooth as hell.
Michelle lit up. “I’m great,” she giggled, before excusing herself like she suddenly had somewhere to be.
He stopped in front of me. “You’re looking well today, old-timer.”
I ignored him. Rolled right past.
He chuckled and dropped into a chair behind me.
Jordin smiled softly. Too softly. “Hey, Oak.”
That pissed me off.
I glared at her, my jaw so tight it ached. My options in my head in response to their presence were stark. It was either say nothing, scream at the top of my lungs, or break down crying.
I didn’t have anything to say.
I wanted my old life back.
Maybe this—being broken—was my punishment for ruining it.
She frowned, glanced at Ciarán, then looked back at me and continued like I’d asked her a question. “I came to see you.”
“Well, you’ve seen me,” I said flatly. “You can go now.”
Ciarán let out a low chuckle, but his nostrils flared. “Don’t do that,” he warned me.
“What are you going to—” I started.
Jordin cut me off. “I just wanted to check on you.” She exhaled a breath.
She was trying hard not to snap at me.
She pitied me.
And that pissed me off more.
I ran my tongue over my teeth. “Yeah? You’re checking on me before you go fuck him?”
Her face dropped.
Good. Now she felt a fraction of what I did.
She turned without a word and stormed out.
Ciarán stepped forward. “You’re fucking up, bruh,” he said, shaking his head. “This shit’s already hard on her. Seeing you like this. She’s feeling guilty, and you’re punishing her on top of that—for standing by you?”
“I didn’t ask her to do anything for me. She doesn’t fucking care. Save it.”
He leaned down, planting his hands on the arms of my wheelchair, caging me in. “Don’t make me push your broke ass out this rehab window. I will if you keep hurting her feelings.”
I didn’t flinch. I just held his stare, letting out a long, weary breath through my nose. “Fuck you.”
He straightened up, shaking his head as he looked down at me. “Tighten the fuck up,” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction. “You keep acting like this, she’s gonna leave you to rot.”
I dropped my gaze to my useless legs, a bitter smirk twisting my lips. “Fuck you again.”
He laughed as if I was a joke. “Bye, Oak.”
My fists clenched in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palms.
I spun my chair around and wheeled myself out of the therapy room, the hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly loud in my ears. I navigated the hallway back to my private room, my jaw working, grinding my teeth until my temples ached.
I already regretted what I’d said to Jordin.
I didn’t know why I couldn’t stop being angry.
A few minutes later, my parents walked in.
My mother started fussing immediately, brushing imaginary lint off my shoulder with her perfectly manicured nails.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart? We saw Jordin on the way out.”
I groaned inwardly. I didn’t want to hear a damn word about Jordin.
“Oh yeah,” I said flatly.
My father stepped up beside her, watching me with his usual unreadable stare.
“We’ve been talking. We think you should come home. We can take care of you.”
I didn’t hesitate. “No.”
My mother pursed her lips. “Oak, be reasonable. You need 24-hour care. Someone to take you to your doctor’s appointments, therapy—”
“I’ll stay with Jordin in Miami,” I said, leaning back.
She scoffed. Her mouth opened—
But Marcus, who I hadn’t even noticed in the room, cut her off with a loud laugh.
“Oh, so you’re willing to play cuck for your wife while she fucks some singer?”
I glared. “Shut the fuck up, Marcus.”
Truth was, I’d rather be with Jordin and the singer than stuck in my parents’ house.
And I didn’t want a nurse—some stranger in my space, telling me what to do.
He smirked. “Just saying.”
I ignored him and turned back to my parents. “I’ll be fine. I’m going to Miami.”
They exchanged a look. I didn’t care.
Right then, Valentina walked in. Our eyes met, and her expression turned hard.
“Everybody out.”
She had read me perfectly.
Marcus glared but left. So did my parents.
They didn’t like Valentina anymore—ever since she started being herself. Gay and not interested in me. They also saw her partying on social media with Jordin and Ciarán.
She pulled up a chair next to me, crossing her legs. “You look like shit.”
I nodded. “Feel like it too.”
We talked. About nothing. About everything.
Eventually, I told her I was tired.
Instead of calling the nurse to help me into bed, I sat in my chair, staring at nothing. I was just starting to doze off when I heard footsteps.
I opened my eyes.
Ciarán.
He stood over me, holding his phone up.
“Since you don’t want to get your ass up and try—just because you should—I figured I’d give you some motivation.”
I stared. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He smirked. Tapped the screen—
And suddenly I was looking at a video.
Jordin was in the white dress she’d worn earlier. It was pushed up around her waist.
She was bent over the balance beam I’d used in therapy.
He was fucking her from behind.
Her head was thrown back, eyes closed, mouth slack.
His dick was coated in her. My vision blurred, and every muscle in my body seized. I jerked forward, ready to lunge at him.
But my legs didn’t move.
Not even a twitch.
I gripped the wheels of my chair so tight my knuckles went white.
I wanted to flip the whole thing over. Slam into a wall. Throw something. Break something. Scream.
Instead, I shook.
My body trembled like a man coming apart at the seams.
Ciarán was unnervingly calm.
“See how much of this dick I’m pushing in your wife’s pussy? Do you remember how she damn near sings when she cums?” he said, tapping the screen like he was showing me a highlight reel. “Listen to the way she moans—ready—begs for it? You want to experience that again, don’t you?”
My hand shot out and slammed a nearby tray table, sending a water bottle flying.
The sound echoed.
I wanted to destroy the bed, the chair—everything in this room. I wanted the whole building to collapse on top of us.
But all I could do was shake. My arms, my hands—my whole body trembled like it was coming undone from the inside out.
I was stuck.
Stuck with rage.
Stuck with shame.
Stuck with the sound of my wife’s moans for another man echoing in my ears.
And that motherfucker?
He just smirked.
He tapped the screen again. The video disappeared. He slid his phone into his pocket and leaned down.
“Work harder on getting better,” he said. “And stop being mean to her.”
Then he straightened up and walked out.
I sat there.
Body stiff.
Jaw locked.
What the fuck was his angle? Did he want Jordin or not?