Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
CLOVER
Iflip listlessly through the channels, looking for something to keep my mind off the pain until I can take another dose of ibuprofen in an hour.
Hopefully, Cristina will be back from grabbing ice cream soon, and we can start the movie. Movies are much better at keeping me distracted than television.
Even if she is making me watch The Princess Diaries, while wearing matching tiaras…
I reach up, wincing as I adjust my crown.
The tiara is ridiculous and heavy, and the pins are scratching into my scalp, but Cristina was so excited about “Princess Night” that I’m determined to leave it on. At least until we start the movie. She thinks sparkle will heal and lift our sagging spirits.
I think I’d rather be put in a medically-induced coma than suffer through five more weeks in two casts while needing help on and off the toilet, which tells you everything you need to know about where I am right now.
Blue, Beatrice, and my other friends have been so great about stepping in to help me out, but I’m still…miserable. My leg hurts, and my arm hurts, and my jaw hurts, even though I didn’t even injure my jaw. But apparently, pain makes me clench my teeth in my sleep, so now that hurts, too.
At least the scar on my cheek is healing nicely. I might not spend the rest of my life looking like I ended up on the wrong end of a shiv in the prison yard.
Might not…
Rage simmers inside my chest like a bad case of heartburn.
They still haven’t found the guy who did this. They found the truck abandoned a few miles from the scene of the accident, but it had been stolen two weeks before. So far, the police have no idea who stole it, why he was driving the wrong way on the highway, or where he is now.
If nothing changes, this fucker might get away scot-free.
Logically, I know having the man who broke me behind bars won’t make me heal any faster. Illogically, I firmly believe that if I were allowed to stab him with Voodoo pins until he begged for forgiveness, I would feel a whole lot better.
I have become stabby.
I was never stabby before.
Another thing to be angry about.
Very, very angry…
From his spot by the door, Barnaby the golden retriever whimpers, as if he can sense my simmering rage, and isn’t a fan.
“Don’t worry, buddy, I’m not going to do anything crazy.” I sigh as I resume clicking through the channels. “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to.”
Barnaby resumes his fretful pacing, panting a little too hard for a young dog. He’s been upset since Cristina left to grab treats at the market down the street. She warned he might be. He’s been sad ever since her husband, Marco, shipped out on his latest deployment.
Barnaby’s a daddy’s boy. He’s also poorly behaved in public, however, and can’t be trusted not to jump on children or steal baguettes out of the hands of old ladies, so he’s stuck here with me, and clearly not happy about it.
“Sorry, big guy,” I say, wishing I could crouch down to soothe him with neck scratches, but I can’t.
So, I have to resort to wheedling in my best “be a good boy” voice, “Are you sure you don’t want to come over here and chill?
You can sit on the couch by my wheelchair, and I’ll scratch your ears really good, I promise. ”
Barnaby shoots me a tragic, betrayed look that makes it clear we won’t be cuddling up anytime soon. I’m considering wheeling into the kitchen to get some dog treats from the counter when my phone buzzes.
I glance at the side table, pulse speeding as I see Bea’s name on the screen.
I really hope she isn’t mad.
But hell, the yearning in that house was getting unbearable, especially when there’s no reason for the two of them not to kiss and make up and live happily ever after. Or at least have some excellent sex before they’re too busy with a newborn for extracurricular bedroom activities.
I pick up my phone, tension easing as I read—Thank you, sweet friend.
Your plan was brilliant and generous, but turns out we didn’t need the push.
We came to our senses over dinner tonight, and this sexy new boyfriend of mine will be sleeping in my room from now on.
So, if you want to come home sooner, please feel free.
Blue said he could come pick you up after practice tomorrow if you want. Just let us know, okay? Love you!
I grin, so happy that I almost forget that I’m the most tragic woman in Tragic Town as I dictate my congratulations—Yay!
Yay! And more yay! Seriously, I’m so happy for you guys.
This is fantastic news. You really are perfect for each other.
And thanks for the offer, but I think I’ll stay here and spare my ears for a little while.
Just keep it down enough that the neighbors don’t call the cops, okay?
Love you both, and I’ll touch base soon.
I set my phone back on the side table and reach for the remote again, only to be interrupted by a sharp squeaking loud enough to make me flinch.
I glance up to see Barnaby pressing his nose against the gap in the squawking screen door, widening the space between the door and the frame until—
“Barnaby, no,” I say. “No, buddy. No, don’t— Shit!”
The latch pops like a gunshot, and he’s out the door, ninety pounds of stressed-out golden retriever rocketing across the patio into the backyard.
He’s through the gate that Cristina must have left open two seconds later.
I hear his nails scrabbling on the driveway through the open windows, and then… he’s gone.
Gone.
And Cristina is going to cry her eyes out if I don’t get him back.
“Shit,” I curse again, reaching for my wheels. I shove toward the door as best I can with one good hand and the thumb sticking out of my cast.
I’m not supposed to be using my left hand at all, but I can’t just sit here.
With Marco deployed, Barnaby is the only member of Cris’s family still in Louisiana, and she loves that dog to distraction.
He’s her baby. I can’t let her baby get lost or hurt or run over by another maniac driving a truck like a loaded weapon.
The screen door bangs against the frame behind me as I wheel through it.
The back patio is flat, manageable, and I get across the well-trimmed grass and through the gate okay. But as soon as I start down the driveway, it becomes obvious that I’ve made a serious miscalculation.
The driveway is way steeper than I remembered, and my casts don’t just make me more awkward; they make me heavier.
Which makes me gain speed faster, which makes my heart leap into my throat and wobble there as I careen through the darkness.
I squeeze the wheel guide with my good hand on one side, and shove my cast against the guide on the other, but the pressure sends pain shooting through my damaged bone.
I’m forced to back off. The second I do, the chair rolls even faster.
Realizing there’s no way I’m stopping this without mechanical assistance, I bend, reaching for the emergency brake levers by my knees.
I find the switch on the right side instantly, but on the left—the side with the arm encased in plaster past my elbow—I fumble. I try again, then again, resisting the urge to pull the right brake without the left, knowing that will only throw me sideways.
Meanwhile, the dark end of the driveway is coming up fast, and I realize, with terrifying clarity, that I’m on a collision course with the Range Rover parked across the street.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart hammers faster.
I can’t afford to take another hit right now.
My bones haven’t healed from my first catastrophic injury; another one so soon might do critically serious damage.
My stomach is about to drop through the bottom of the chair when I finally hook my thumb around the left brake on the fourth try. I pull hard on both levers, groaning as pain flashes through my wounded arm again.
But thank God, the chair finally jolts, shudders, and…stops.
Right at the end of the driveway.
“Shit,” I pant, trembling as I lean back in my chair. “Holy shit, that was close.”
I’m seriously shaken, and my left arm throbs more than it has in days, but I can’t stop to whine about it.
I’m going to be okay, I can tell, and I have to find Barnaby.
I release the brakes, planning to back up and roll onto the sidewalk leading toward the market, where I’m guessing Barnaby must have gone. But even with the emergency brakes off, the wheels won’t move. They’re jammed or something.
I try again, then again, putting more weight into it, but no amount of force from my right arm moves the chair so much as an inch, and my left arm is basically useless.
Fresh rage blooms inside me like a mushroom cloud as I realize I’m stuck.
I’m stuck at the end of Cristina’s dark driveway, with a jammed wheelchair, my cell phone on the table inside, a runaway dog getting farther away from home with every passing second, and no one around to help. Cris’s cul-de-sac only has three houses, and the other two porch lights are dark.
I look farther down the street, but those houses are dark, too. Where is everyone? It’s barely ten o’clock on a Friday. Shouldn’t someone still be awake?
“Hello?” I call out into the silence. “Hello, is anyone there?”
A dog barks in response, but it’s not Barnaby, just a neighborhood defender giving a warning yap from a few doors down, who quiets quickly, clearly deciding I’m not a threat.
I’m not a threat.
Hell, I’m barely a functional human being.
I pull in a shaky breath that emerges as a sob.
A beat later, the tears begin to flow, hot and ugly.
They’re tears of frustration and anger and helplessness.
Tears I’ve been fighting since I woke up in the hospital and realized my entire life had changed for the worse.
Tears that threaten every time I think about my bass in the music room and my languishing clothing design projects and all the other dreams that are on the backburner for the foreseeable future.