Chapter 24 Jaden
Jaden
I’ve been on levetiracetam for two weeks, which I know is not long enough for side effects to fade, but really . . . I need these side effects to fade. I’m tired all the time. So tired.
I’m also tired of this hotel room. And I’m sure my parents would like to get back to Beck and my grandmother and selling the restaurant.
I guess it’s more a matter of settling the restaurant now, though.
They aren’t selling it; they’re losing it.
They didn’t have to tell me. I figured it out on my own.
I’m decent at looking things up online, including bankruptcy filings, it seems. At least for small-business-owning blue-collar folks like my mom and dad.
I doubt I could google my way into Bryson’s father’s bank records.
If I want to do that, though, I’m going to need to leave the hotel premises. And visits to the neurologist don’t count.
“I’d like to sleep in my apartment tonight,” I announce. My parents lift their heads from their bowls of pasta, the same dinner we’ve eaten five nights in a row at the restaurant in the hotel lobby.
They look at one another, then back to me, wordless. I drop my fork into my angel hair with marinara and press my back against the leather booth.
“You guys can’t live with me in this hotel forever. At some point, I have to go back to class. And I’m going to need to figure out what to do about my scholarship now that—”
“You don’t have to decide that yet. Tennis is in the spring, and the doctors said if the medication continues to be effective, there’s no reason you can’t compete.
” My father has been insistent that I can still play.
Maybe he’s right. It just feels irresponsible.
And there’s no way I can make the starting squad with energy levels like this.
Even if my neurologist says it’s possible, he didn’t necessarily say he recommended it.
“Humph,” I sigh, flopping my chin in my open palm, elbow on the table. I stare at the cartoon sketches on the restaurant’s wallpaper border. It’s peeling in places, and I’ve grown to hate the illustrated pigs eating fettuccini.
I twirl pasta around my fork without looking but abandon the bite after a few seconds. I’m not hungry. Probably because I’m not moving. I’m barely awake during the day. At night, I can’t get myself to fall asleep. I’m too scared. What if I have a seizure?
The medical team at Mercy watched me for forty-eight hours. I had four seizures that they monitored, but only one that I was awake for. I wonder how long I’ve been doing this at night.
“Fine, I’ll try to play. But I have to start somewhere, and I think that should be with my accounting class.
And doing homework in my apartment. Is that fair?
” I fold my arms over my chest and meet my mother’s stare.
She’s the one who’s worried. I can tell.
My dad is ready for me to challenge for the one seed again.
My mom wants to sit in the bathroom while I shower.
“Why can’t you study at home for the rest of the semester? The school offered to finish your term online,” my mom points out for the umpteenth time.
My father sighs, dropping his fork and sinking back in their half of the booth.
“What? You’re on her side now?” My mom gives him a hard glare, but he doesn’t break the way he normally does when my mom challenges him. Thank you, Dad.
“I know you’re scared. I’m scared. But you sat in that room with me, we both heard what the doctor said,” my dad says.
I clear my throat, and they look at me as I lift my palm.
“All three of us heard,” I correct.
“Right. She heard the diagnosis with us. The medication is working. It’s been two weeks, Daria. She hasn’t had a seizure since—”
“You don’t know that!” My mom’s panic-riddled voice turns a few heads at a table nearby, and my cheeks burn. Great, we’re announcing that I have epilepsy to the world now. Awesome. Just awesome.
“I do know it, babe. I’ve sat up and watched.
I check her every ten fucking minutes. The worry isn’t going to go away if we’re living with her.
Hell, she hasn’t been out of my sight for days, and I still worry every minute.
But what does that do for her? How is that helping any of us?
” My dad gets up from the booth and marches away a few steps, rubbing at the back of his neck.
He pivots near the kitchen door and makes his way back to us, but he doesn’t sit down.
“Jaden, we’ll move your clothes over today. We’ll stay in town for a few more days just in case, but it’s time to try.” My father doesn’t move his gaze from me, purposely not acknowledging the huffing sounds my mom is making.
“Thank you,” I say, slipping out of the booth and wrapping my arms around his wide chest. I close my eyes as I lay my cheek over his heart, and he kisses the top of my head.
“Go on and get your stuff,” he says, letting go of our embrace. “Your mom and I are going to talk.”
I glance to my mom. Her eyes are stoic, but the quiver in her bottom lip lets me know she’s going to bend. She doesn’t want to, but she will. And that scares her.
I text Bryson on my way up to the hotel room, letting him know that I’ll be back in the apartment tonight, which I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about. He and my parents get along amazingly well, but there hasn’t been a second of privacy for the two of us since Amelia brought them to the hospital.
Bryson: Thank God. What can I do?
I never thought I’d tire of people offering me help.
Turns out, though, I’m terrible at accepting it when I really need it.
In the Before Brain Break times, which is how I am affectionately referring to the scene I made on the tennis court, I would have swooned over Bryson’s constant offers to wash dishes and do my laundry.
Now, I’d give anything for people to let me drop the damn detergent pods in myself.
Me: I’ll just see you there tonight.
Bryson: I can get out of practice early.
He keeps doing that, taking liberties with his coach, and I don’t want him to.
It’s nice that the team is being accommodating for him, probably because our couple image has permeated the university’s sports brand for the last month.
And since my very public seizure, the sympathy wave has been constant.
I don’t like it. I don’t want the constant reminders of what happened to me, but I get that people are just trying to be nice.
At what point do comments on social media start to become about the commenter, though, rather than the person they are supposedly supporting?
It feels a bit like people are trying to one-up one another in how much they stand by me.
Only a handful are literally by my side, and I’d really like those few to give me a damn break.
Me: I don’t think making sure your girlfriend eats dinner is a good excuse. I’ll be fine. See you at 7.
My phone buzzes with his response, and I chuckle at the selfie he sent of his pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes. I send him one back of my very set-in-stone, adamant face. We leave it at that.
I wanted to surprise Taryn, but now that I’m in our apartment while she’s at practice, I’m regretting not giving her advance warning.
I’m staring at a pair of her very stringlike panties and what I think are Corbin’s boxers on the floor in front of our sofa.
I was hoping to lie down and attempt to take a nap on this sofa.
Now, I’m thinking about ordering a crate of Lysol.
I grab the tongs from our kitchen drawer and promptly remove the undergarments, tossing them into Taryn’s room and quickly shutting the door lest I spot more evidence of what’s been going on with my roommate while I’ve been gone.
I’m starting to run the load of dishes—tongs included—when I hear the jangle of her beaded key chain against our door.
I let her get fully inside before scaring the shit out of her.
“I’m home,” I announce. She flattens her back against the door, and I snicker.
“It’s good to know that if there’s an intruder, you’re shutting yourself inside,” I laugh out.
She blinks, her expression blank and cheeks colorless for a few seconds. She steps into the room after shaking her head and muttering “Bitch” under her breath.
“You missed me,” I say, stepping out of the kitchen and opening my arms for her incoming hug.
Her sweaty body folds around mine as she drops her gear bag and keys to the floor.
“How was practice?” My mouth tastes like acid uttering those words. I wonder if I’ll ever go to practice again.
“Awful. We’re going to get our asses kicked next week.
Good thing it isn’t spring. You’ll be back and number one by then.
I refuse to play doubles with anyone else.
” She hasn’t let go yet, which is good because it keeps her from seeing the skepticism on my face as she hugs me like a missing person finally returned home.
“When can you come to practice?” she says, finally letting go of her grip on the back of my shirt. I brace myself on the counter with one palm as she steps back to meet my eyes. “You are coming back, right?”
I let out a heavy breath. My dad was right. Bryson too. I have to try. But I’m terrified of what version of me is going to show up the next time I set foot on the court. I’m not worried about having a seizure. I’m worried about not being my best self.
I’m worried . . . about losing.
“I’ll be out tomorrow. Easing back in. That’s the term Coach keeps using. Easing. Because that’s how I roll, slow and steady.”
My friend holds my stare for a beat, then breathes out a short laugh.
“As slow and steady as a pro wrestler in an antique shop,” she spits out.
“That’s quite the analogy.” I can’t disagree with her, though. I’m not sure I know how to hold back.
“I’m sorry I left this place a mess. I didn’t know you were . . .” She wanders into the living room and rounds the edge of the sofa. Her eyes flash wide when she spots the empty floor.
“Your underwear? Yeah, I found them. I put them in your room. And are the boxers . . .”
“None of your business,” she huffs, pursing her lips and hitting me with one more hard look before snagging her bag from the floor and dragging it into her bedroom.
I follow behind her and push my way into her room for once. She puts her hands on her hips in response, so I take my small act of resistance all the way, flopping on her bed and propping my head up in preparation for my own inquisition.
“Hey!” She cuts her protest short when I quirk a brow, groaning in defeat and pushing her shoes off with her heels. She climbs onto the bed next to me, and we face one another like best girlfriends ready to share secrets.
“Things with Corbin are getting real. Like real real.” She’s been on again, off again with her brother’s best friend for a while now, but I’ve sort of always known that she wants more out of things with him.
“Have you told Kai?” I suspect telling her brother is what’s standing in the way of whatever the next step is between them.
She rolls to her back and grabs the heart pillow from her bed, hugging it to her chest. Corbin gave her that last year. She won’t sleep without it.
“Kai will kill him. He won’t kill me because, well, family. But he’ll kill him. And then I won’t have him. So, yeah . . . there you have it.” She rolls her head to the side, and I shift to nestle in a little closer.
“I know, my problems are so stupid compared to yours. I’m sorry,” she says, pouting her lips.
“No, your problems are refreshing. There are solutions to yours,” I say, inserting an unintentional hefty dose of real life into the conversation. It seems to morph my best friend’s expression from swooning forbidden-love crush to soul-crushing empathy in a matter of seconds.
“I’m really sorry this happened to you.” She swallows hard as her eyes get glassy. We haven’t talked about it alone, she and I, but I know she was there when it happened. I remember seeing her face in flashes. I heard her voice.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.
“You didn’t mean to,” she says, and I nod against the pillow in agreement.
We lie together for a long while, simply staring at one another and feeling scared about so much, too much to even put words to.
The quiet is nice. And so is the company.
And for the first time in weeks, I drift off to sleep without feeling a vise grip at my heart for fear of waking up to see Bryson’s or my parents’ terrified expressions looking back at me.