4. Gwen
CHAPTER 4
GWEN
“ C ome in,” I call out.
My dad opens the door and peeks his head inside my room. “Demi’s here. Do you want me to send her up?”
“Yes, of course. Why didn’t you already?”
“I wasn’t sure if you were ready for company.”
“Dad, Demi is always welcome.”
“Well, you need your rest. I don’t want you overexerting yourself.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been lying in bed since we got home yesterday.”
“As you should be. Broken ribs take a lot of time to heal,” he says before disappearing from my view.
I try to reach up to run my hand over my tousled hair, and a sharp pain seizes the left side of my torso, stealing my breath for a moment. I still haven’t fully recovered when Demi runs into my room.
“Oh my God, Gwennie.” She drops into the chair beside my bed. “I want to hug you so badly.”
I start to laugh, but it turns into a pained choking sound. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts too much.”
“I’ll do my best. Aside from your ribs, how are you feeling?”
“Like someone carved up my face and kicked the shit out of me.”
She covers her mouth. “Oh, Gwennie. I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
“I should’ve called the police sooner.”
“Demi, you saved my life. I’d be dead now if we hadn’t been on the phone when Jerry walked in. It’s your quick reaction that made sure the police got there in time.”
Her lower lip wobbles, and she drags in a shaky breath. “I hate that you had to go through all of that. If he wasn’t already dead, I’d want to kill him myself.”
“I know you would. And I love you for it. But I’m okay. Aside from being a little battered and bruised, that is.”
“I bet you’re glad to be home.”
“I am. Being in my own bed definitely beats the one in the hospital.” I’m lying on a mattress that feels like floating on a cloud, with king-sized pillows behind me, propping up my torso.
“The food is better too,” she says. “Maeve is cooking lasagna and garlic bread. She invited me to stay for dinner, but I can’t.”
“Yeah, she’s an amazing cook.”
“Thank God your dad married her. You haven’t had to eat his cooking for the last six years.”
I’m tempted to laugh but clamp my lips together until the urge disappears. “I told you not to make me laugh.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help it if I'm naturally hilarious.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that.”
“On a serious note, can I ask you something about the attack?”
“Sure.”
“Who was Jerry to you?”
“He was in one of my classes this semester, and the professor paired us up for a project.”
“Was there anything romantic between the two of you?”
“God, no. He was extremely shy. Even though we were partners and had to work together, he barely spoke to me. I had to take the lead just to make sure we got the work done on time. He gave no signs of having feelings for me. I mean, he barely looked at me. If anything, I thought he didn’t like me at all.”
“Do you think he was stalking you?”
“He must’ve been, because there’s no way he’d know where my apartment was. It’s not even within walking distance of school. He had to have followed me home.”
“Maybe he looked you up online,” she suggests.
“If he searched, he wouldn’t find anything. You know how nervous my dad was about me getting an apartment on my own this year. He had one of his attorneys set everything up so I’m not even listed on the lease.”
She shakes her head. “Fucking psycho.”
“My dad or Jerry?” I joke.
She laughs. “Well… I’m talking about Jerry. But your dad is intense when it comes to keeping his family safe.”
“He is.” Even more so since he became the owner of the Coyotes hockey team seven years ago. “He’s gotten a lot more attention from the media than my grandfather did when he was the team owner.”
“That’s because your dad is hot,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows.
My nose wrinkles. “You know it grosses me out when you say that.”
“I do, but it’s the truth, and the rest of the country thinks so too. I saw a post on social media where a romance author is using your dad for the hero’s inspiration in their story.”
I snort. “I don’t want to hear about that shit.”
“Why? It’s not a bad thing.”
“It’s just weird. We need a change of subject before I vomit and injure my ribs more.”
“How long are you supposed to stay holed up in your room?” she asks.
I might want to stay here forever.
“I plan to get up and move around a little more tomorrow and Sunday, and on Monday, I have an appointment with the plastic surgeon.”
“Will you get your stitches out?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“Have you looked under the bandage yet?”
I shake my head. “No. I can’t bring myself to. I figure the best thing I can do until then is keep it dry and let it heal.”
“Are you worried?”
“Worried” seems too simple to sum up what I feel. I can list a plethora of emotions I’m experiencing, but there’s no concise way to explain what it’s like knowing my face has been carved up like a jack-o-lantern. It’s complicated.
“The damage is done. What good will worrying about it do?” I keep my reply lighthearted.
She studies me as if she doesn’t believe me. We’ve been friends for long enough that she knows me almost as well as I know myself. But today, she lets my nonchalant reply stand without challenge.
“Plastic surgeons can do amazing things. I’m sure the scar will barely be noticeable when it’s fully healed,” she reassures me.
“Mhmm.” I hum my agreement, but it sounds as unconvincing to me as it must to her.
“My mom gave me a list of errands to run for her, so I’ve got to get going. But before I leave, I want to lock down when I’ll see you next.”
“Aside from my appointment, my schedule is wide open.”
“Let’s plan for Tuesday evening. I’ll pick you up and take you out for a milkshake.”
“That sounds good. I haven’t had one in ages.”
“Then it’s a plan.” She stands. “I want to hug you so badly but don’t want to hurt you.”
“I want to hug you too.”
She blows me a kiss. “Call me if you need anything or you want to talk.”
“I will.”
She sends a smile my way before leaving my room.
With nothing to do to occupy my time, I decide to take a nap. After all, sleep is supposed to be beneficial for healing. But when my eyes close, Jerry is there waiting. I see his eerie pale eyes filled with anger, and feel the sharp edge of his knife pressing into my neck. I remember every horrible second of what happened. It’s like living through the assault all over again.
A cold sweat washes over me in a wave from my head to my toes, and I struggle to draw in my next breath. My hands tremble, and I hear a whooshing sound, as if I’m in an underwater tunnel. I press a hand to my chest where my heart races so rapidly I wonder if I’m having a heart attack. My shallow breaths pick up speed, coming faster and faster. My eyes go wide with panic as everything around me blurs and darkness consumes me.
I carefully lower onto the wooden seat while Maeve bustles around the kitchen, preparing dinner. My dad fastens T.J. into his booster seat next to me.
“Want Gen,” he says, holding his arms out toward me. He still can’t pronounce the W in my name yet, and he’s so stinking cute, I’m happy to answer to whatever he calls me. “Want Gen,” he repeats louder.
“I’m right here, cutie. We get to sit next to each other. You can be my dinner partner. Okay?”
He smiles and then nods.
“Thank you,” my dad says as he walks away to help Maeve carry everything to the table. With each item they set down, my stomach growls more. Between the amazing aroma and the fact that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, I’m ravenous.
My dad places a glass of water and a bottle of prescription pain relievers in front of me before he sits at the end of the table.
“Thank you for the water, but I’m going to pass on the meds. They make me tired and make my brain sluggish. I’d rather be in pain.”
Maeve settles in the seat to my dad’s right and across from T.J.’s. “How are you feeling?” she asks.
“I’m pretty sore, but I can deal.”
“I understand not wanting to take the prescription meds, but you can take some ibuprofen at least,” she suggests.
“Maybe I’ll do that before I go to sleep. My ribs seem to be bothering me less now that I’m out of bed.”
“The discharge instructions mentioned raising your upper body when you lie down,” my dad points out.
My gaze flicks to him. “I have been.”
“Maybe you should try sleeping in the recliner in the living room,” he says.
Maeve notices the annoyed expression on my face and places her hand on his forearm. “Gwen’s an adult. I’m sure she can figure out what works best for her.”
My dad nods and glances at me. “I’m sorry, Gwennie. It’s easy for me to forget how capable you are. When you’re hurt, I just want to make you better.”
I offer a small smile. “I know, and I appreciate your apology; however, Maeve’s right. But while I might not need you to add another pillow to my stack, or tuck me in, I still need your love and support.”
He clears his throat. “You always have that.”
“I know.”
My dad and I have always been close. Whenever I have a problem, he’s the parent I go to for advice. Once Maeve came into the picture, she effortlessly fit into our family. And now she’s not only my stepmom, she’s also my friend.
This horrible situation is new territory for all of us, and I’m sure he’s at a loss of how to fix me. But that’s the thing—there’s no quick fix for what happened. I already know my physical wounds will heal way before my mental and emotional ones. I don’t think I’ve begun to realize the depth of my emotional trauma, and I have a hunch I’m going to find out whether I’d like to or not. I’d never had a panic attack in my life until today. And the fact that I passed out was scary as hell. But I’m still not sharing what happened with Dad or Maeve. They’d probably drag me off to the emergency room right now to make sure there’s nothing the CT scan missed. I’m hoping it was an isolated incident. In fact, I’m counting on it.
I shift my weight on the exam table, and the paper crinkles beneath my back. I’ve been thinking about this appointment all weekend, and now that it’s here, I wish I could turn back time. I’m not ready. At least with a bandage covering half my face, I can pretend what lies beneath isn’t that bad. But this is the day I have to face the truth, whether I want to or not.
Dr. Alcott moves until he’s looking down at me.“You may feel a little tugging as I remove the surface sutures. The subcuticular sutures, which are the ones beneath the epidermis, will dissolve with time.”
“Okay.”
He pulls a light over, shining it down on the left side of my face. I close my eyes and try to relax, but inside my stomach, it feels like a team of gymnasts practicing their tumbling routines. The bandage is peeled away, and then Dr. Alcott hums in approval. “You’re healing up nicely.”
As genuinely pleased as he sounds, I’m not getting my hopes up. His idea of what looks good and mine aren’t the same.
His glove-covered fingers are gentle against my cheek and then I feel the tugging sensation he mentioned. It’s not painful at all. My eyes remain closed even after he moves away. I hear metal instruments clattering, and the bright light shining behind my eyelids disappears. That’s when I finally decide to take a look.
“You can sit up now,” he says.
I roll to my side before using my hands to push myself upward while my ribs scream with agony. The nurse, who’s been silent the whole time, hands him a round mirror with a handle. He walks back over to me. “Your scar looks purple, but it will lighten with time. I’ll give you a sheet of instructions on how to care for it.”
I nod. “Okay.”
He hands me the mirror. “Take a look.”
I study the object in my hand as if it’s the first time I’ve seen one. The white plastic frame surrounding the reflective surface is cheaply made. I wonder if they have a stash of these in case people throw them after they see themselves for the first time.
“Go ahead,” he prods.
My hand shakes as I slowly raise the mirror. Once I commit to looking, I can’t take it back or pretend I didn’t. I draw a long, calming breath into my lungs. A horrified gasp slips from my lips when I see my reflection.
At least, I think it’s me.
I don’t recognize the young woman staring back. The long, brown hair is familiar, but the haunted look in the gray irises and the purple smudges beneath them are new. But the real star of this nightmare is the fresh scar that starts an inch away from my eye and ends four inches below. It’s even worse than I imagined.
The mirror slips from my numb fingers, crashing to the floor and shattering into tiny, jagged pieces.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, covering my mouth.
Dr. Alcott pats my arm while the nurse jumps in to clean up the mess. “It’s all right. I know it’s shocking to see, but I promise it will improve. Eventually, you’ll barely be able to notice it.”
Every inch of me is numb. Is this what being in shock is like?
“You’re all set, Gwen. I don’t need to see you again unless you have a concern about how it’s healing.”
“Thank you,” I murmur as I gingerly slide from the table to my feet. My legs are unsteady beneath me as I leave the exam room and head out to the waiting room, where my mom is waiting for me. Before I round the corner, I draw my hair over my cheek and make a beeline for the exit. My mom catches up with me in the parking lot.
“Gwen, what’s wrong?” she asks.
She can’t possibly be this clueless.
“What do you think is wrong, Mom? Could it be that I have a four-inch scar on my fucking face?”
“I’m sorry, honey. That was a dumb question.”
And now, I feel bad for snapping at her.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to take my anger out on you.”
“You can do whatever you need to in order to feel better,” she says, drawing me into her arms. I lay my head on her shoulder for a few seconds before drawing back. “Can I see how it looks?” she asks.
Nodding, I tuck my hair behind my ear, giving her a clear view.
Her eyes open wide before she composes her features and gives me what’s meant to be a conciliatory smile. “It’s not as large as I thought it would be,” she says, trying to reassure me, but her initial reaction was more truthful than her words could ever be.
I walk to the passenger side of her vehicle and droll to myself, “Yeah, it’s barely a scratch.”