CHAPTER 8
Harvey
“Harv?”
I finally look up at Claire, who’s been in my room for some time now, yet nothing is registering.
I saw her mouth move when she came in, yet retained none of her words.
Today’s a shitty day.
Today’s bleak.
Today’s not a training day.
I hate this feeling. It shouldn’t even be a feeling if the mere act of being depressed makes me feel nothing.
I’m numb in this state, as if there’s a veil inside me, covering anything that might help me think, feel, be .
Instead, it’s dark and lonely.
God, is it ever lonely in here.
“Harvey?”
“What do you want?” She looks taken aback by the harsh tone of my voice.
“I…I figured we should start PT soon.” I should feel bad about the telltale sign that she’s nervous as she looks down and plays with her manicured nails.
Yet nothing.
I feel nothing.
For her, for her feelings, for her wants.
I couldn’t care less.
I don’t know what happened.
Scratch that. I know exactly what dampened my mood all weekend.
Gemma.
Her boss brought her home after their work event on Friday because she had been drinking. It’s Monday, and yet I can still feel the fury injecting venom in my veins, leading the poison all the way to my heart.
The guy’s young—twenty-nine.
The guy has money—he has a driver who brought back our van.
The guy has two fucking eyes that can see how hot Gemma is.
But she’s mine.
And then I remember Claire and the evening we spent together last Friday. I remember watching her read and listening to her voice and melting in her passion for the story.
And then I remember that Claire’s still sitting on my bed, waiting for my answer. It’s not her fault that Gemma was driven home by her rich, good-looking boss.
Of course I Googled the fucker.
Clearly, I love torturing myself.
To make matters worse, I’ve noticed little things lately, like the amount of overtime Gemma has been working, how she has switched from wearing suits to tight skirts, and how she seems happier in the evenings when she returns home.
Maybe I’m reading too much into all of this and she simply enjoys her job.
I don’t know.
All I know is that her boss bringing her home adds to my suspicions, no matter how irrational they may be.
“Not today.”
“Maybe you can try? I can show you the modified versions and shorten the reps.”
“What part of ‘not today’ do you not understand?” I say, exasperated.
She swallows, and I notice her pinned-up hair with a black headband and matching scrubs. Then I stare at her lips as they part and her neck as she swallows once more.
“Harvey…what did I do to you?”
I chuckle. “You want to be another woman in my life that’s disappointed? Grab a ticket and wait in line,” I scoff, trying yet failing to pull my eyes away from her. Her skin is fair, and her nude lipstick and light makeup brighten her features well. She purses her lips, and her hands go to her waist as if readying for battle.
“Listen…we’re making progress, you were making progress. I don’t know what happened over the weekend, but it shouldn’t stop you from moving your body today. Who knows, it might make you feel better.”
“Nope, doubt it.” I take my earphones and plug them into my phone, tuning her out.
Fuck her training and fuck her and my progress.
It’s my progress, mine .
So I get to decide if I want to continue or not, to move and train or not.
I’m so sick of women telling me what to do. If it’s not Gemma, it’s my mom; if it’s not her, it’s Claire.
I let the metal music drag me into the dark abyss, allowing the adrenaline to fuel my body with a dose of energy, when suddenly Claire snatches my earphones off.
“What the hell did you do that for?”
She unplugs them from my phone and hides them inside her pocket. “Harvey,” she says, leaning forward, her fingertips landing on either side of my wheelchair, “I know that some days are harder, and that’s okay. But the difference between people who give up on life and people who don’t is that the ones who don’t have discipline to get through the bad days.”
I laugh in her face, my breathing accelerating because, fuck , the audacity of this woman.
“Yeah? Did you learn that in school? Or read it on Instagram lately? ‘Discipline isn’t for the weak,’ hashtag ‘push through the hard days’…” I mock her.
“Harv—” She’s standing up now, her arms folded, her eyebrows knitted together, and this is the moment my dick chooses to get hard.
This moment right here, basking in Claire’s fury, seeing her bite her goddamn lip.
I release a shaky breath. “I know that you think the shit you learned in college applies to me, but I’m not cut from a textbook, Claire. I’m me . And if I say I can’t handle PT today, you need to leave me the hell alone . Besides, what happened to listening to my body ?”
“Fair enough.” She straightens her posture, remembering her own words.
And just like that, she drops my earphones in my lap and leaves, slamming the door on her way out.
Apparently, I’m skillful enough to turn even someone as sweet as Claire Edwards into a raging asshole.
I’m not proud of it, yet I’m conflicted.
Deep, deep, deep within, I feel the shame, the disgust, the self-hate.
But more than that, I feel relieved.
Because my anger is soothing at this point.
Because anger is addictive, and every time you reach that high, you take a hit. Even though I’m left with both self-hatred and pride.
My wound inside grows in length and width. It seems to be growing at an alarming rate these days, and there’s no stopping it.
I put my face in my hands, trying to slow my breathing, slow my heartbeat, calm my anxiety-ridden nerves.
People drive me crazy sometimes. They judge with their perfect lives and their non-disabled bodies. I mean, Gemma isn’t paralyzed, and she’s already depressed. Imagine if she couldn’t walk. If she couldn’t follow her twin sister around all the time.
I’m so sick of the pressure these people put on me.
If they can’t tame their anxiety or push through their depression, why should I?
Why should it be easier for me?
It shouldn’t. That’s the answer, so they can all gladly fuck right off.
“Your nurse wants you to train,” Henrik says as he brings a chair over next to mine in my room.
“Nah, I’m good.”
While I love hanging out with him, today’s one of those days where I could’ve done without. I don’t know why I feel worse than I did this weekend. Maybe it’s the fact that Gemma’s back at work today, meaning she’s back at the office with him .
“Alright, alright. She’s pretty hot.” I feel my jaw tick, but I say nothing in return. “Gemma’s a chill girlfriend. Many girls would not be down with that shit.”
“She’s my PTA. Not everything is like porn, Hen, for fuck’s sake,” I say, exasperated.
“Debatable. Perhaps if you were as hot as me, you’d understand.”
I snort and shake my head. “You’re something, you know that?”
“Thanks.” He smirks, finally joining the game.
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
We play in silence for what feels like a long time.
Henrik’s the only one who’s never coerced me to “do better” physically. In fact, I’m certain he couldn’t care less.
It’s refreshing.
Henrik doesn’t know it, but he’s my safe place in this crazy world.
I feel slightly better once Gemma gets home tonight.
I showered while Gemma made soup and prepared cheese and bread with our plates. Something about having her home, as we eat dinner together, tapers my anger about Friday. Or maybe it’s spending time with Hen, who knows.
“I’m going to LA this week for work,” Gemma tells me when she’s done eating. She takes her dishes to the sink while I process this information.
“Okay.”
She nods, putting everything in the dishwasher. “I leave Thursday after work. I’ll be back Saturday evening.”
I say nothing, absolutely nothing, knowing that if I open my mouth, my insecurities will rush out.
“I know you’re leaving Friday with your dad and Henrik, but…”
I sigh, remembering my own trip coming up. I know I’m not being fair and that this is simply part of her job as she builds her career.
“Don’t worry, Claire will be here.”
I don’t realize the implication of my words until I’ve said them. I wish I could take them back when Gemma looks as though I’ve slapped her.
“So if she wasn’t, I’d have a reason to worry?”
Seriously, she’s going to turn this on me?
“Nope! I’m just trying to give you some peace of mind. I’ll be fine.”
“Alright.” She nods, making her way to her bedroom.
I wish she were more preoccupied with the fact that she agreed to travel, probably with her young boss, to LA no less, after he dropped her off at home last Friday, rather than if I’ll survive without her constantly watching me.
I head to my room, blasting music through my earphones while I draw. My drawing quickly turns into Gemma, marking her beautiful features. Sometimes I feel as though she’s more alive on these pages than in real life.
I continue my sketch, waiting a while after the light goes out in her bedroom before wheeling myself in there and next to her bed.
She looks so small with the light from the hallway reflecting off her skin.
I swallow, watching her take deep inhales in and small exhales out.
I could watch her sleep all night.
Many nights I can barely catch any sleep of my own. I have nightmares revolving around the accident. Or this massive fear, pestering and poisoning the insides of my mind, that I’m going to lose Gemma.
I still fault myself for putting her in the hospital because of my dumb ass.
My baby could’ve died.
My throat clogs up, and I gently caress her cheek with my forefinger.
I’m so sorry, Gemma, for everything.
I wish I could do better.
I wish I could be better.
I wheel back to my room and transfer to my bed. I take off my long tee and gray joggers before removing my compression socks.
Once I’m in my adjustable bed, my body tires out and eventually leads me to a slumberous sleep.