Chapter 11
“Extend all your fingers. Yes, like that. As far as you can.”
The spaces between my fingers widen, making each digit look scrawnier the further it gets from its neighbor. My entire hand is borderline skeletal. But I guess that’s what happens when it becomes lame and immobile for two months.
The doctor turns my left hand over. “That pocket of swelling should go down in a few weeks.”
He’s referring to the balloon that is the knuckle below my index finger, the finger that is now more hardware than bone.
“Can’t bend it,” I grit out.
There’s some sort of disconnect no matter how hard I try, no matter how hard I focus, I can’t get past.
Still holding my hand, the doctor peers over the top of his glasses. “We talked about that.”
To be fair, the doctor did tell me when they placed the small, titanium rod between my second knuckle and tip of my right index finger, I might not have much use of it. But I’ve been told a lot of things before and proved people wrong. The reason I graduated from law school and went on to finally pass the bar is because I’m stubborn with a side of vengeance .
“So he’ll never be able to use his finger?” Finn asks from the chair against the wall.
Dr. Olson sighs. “From a medical standpoint, I’m relieved he still has a finger. That break was pretty bad.”
I roll my tongue around the inside of my mouth hating the conversation. Bad is relative. I would’ve let Nate break each and every finger and all my toes if it meant he came to the surface of the bay with me.
“Physical therapy might get you a little further than you are now. We gave you the referral at your last appointment,” Dr. Olson says. “Did you reach out to them?”
I shake my head.
Finn rises from the chair. “Why not?”
I shrug.
Grabbing my file from the counter, Dr. Olson opens it to write down notes. “Maybe your friend here can convince you.”
“I’m his brother-in-law,” Finn clarifies.
“Even better. Familial influence,” Dr. Olson says with a tight smile.
I flex my hand, frowning when my index finger still remains outward. “He’s my acting-warden. My sister had a meeting she couldn’t get out of.”
Dr. Olson chuckles. “Well, whatever—or whoever—it takes to get you to physical therapy makes no difference to me. It’s the most crucial part of recovery and doing it now will help build back strength in your hand and arm you lost since surgery. Certainly would make paddling out easier. I’m sure you’re eager to get back on the water.”
I frown, thinking about yesterday in the car with Harper.
“Advil as needed for the swelling and soreness,” Dr. Olson continues. “But both of which will subside the more you begin to use your hand now that the cast is off.”
Finn folds his arms. “So no restrictions? It’s fine for him to get back on a board?”
I suck in a breath like I’ve been punched in the gut and I wonder how loud the sound is because the doctor narrows his eyes at me.
“No, no restrictions.” He shakes his head, answering Finn’s question. “But of course, take it easy.”
Finn gives me a pat on the back before shaking Dr. Olson’s hand and we make our way out of the examination room.
“What do you think?” he asks me as we walk out to the parking lot. “Want to go rip it?”
I press my lips together and look down at the gauntness of my forearm, wrist, and hand before I open the door. “Nah.”
Sliding into the passenger seat, Finn sighs. “Riley, surfing is who you are.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I bang my head back against the seat. “What is it about my car that makes people want to get all meaningful?”
“Are you afraid of the water?”
I keep my head pressed against the seat but turn it to face Finn. “ Afraid ?” I scoff.
“Yeah. You know, scared. After the accident.” Finn grimaces. “I don’t know, it would make sense if you’re scared to be out there.”
“No.” I take a deep breath, trying to relax my shoulders. “No, I’m not afraid to surf. Never have. Never will be.”
Finn shifts beside me. “Then what is it, man? Riley, you got out of that car and are lucky to be alive.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my teeth.
In theory, the idea of surviving over perishing sounds like the win. But what Finn doesn’t understand—what no one understands—is that when you lose that kind of battle, that’s it.
Dead.
Done.
Over.
But the people you leave behind, they’re the real losers. Because they lost you . When you’re dead, there’s no one to miss, no one to remember, no one to think is missing out on so damn much, like watching his kid grow up or coming home to his wife every day.
Nate is missing all those things that I’m doing, like going to Lucas's Career Day. He’s missing out on the things I could do, like teach his kid to surf.
My gain is his loss. My win—surviving, according to Finn—would never exist without Nate’s death. That’s one hell of a pill for me to swallow.
Finn doesn’t know how lucky he is. Because judging by how easily he tells me this lets me know he doesn’t know how heavy the guilt that comes with surviving is.
It’s so heavy I’m sinking.
“Riley, Nate would never want to see you this way.”
I think of Harper’s soft voice and how she spoke to me the night after coming home from the hospital.
“He’d be so upset at me for treating you this way . ”
The end of that conversation was a stark difference from how we—how I —ended it yesterday. The night I officially came home, we were on the same side. Now, I tried to push her back over the line when she really never crossed it. I just moved it further in her direction.
Today, Nate would be pissed at me . But not because I don’t feel entitled to the joy I find in surfing like Finn thinks. No. Nate would be upset that I was unfairly harsh with Harper.
I sigh, trying to accept that living isn’t my reward. It’s merely my penance, my punishment for not getting Nate out of that car.
“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll work on it,” I lie.