"See?" He hovers, hands twitching like he wants to help but knows I'll snap at him if he tries. "You need to take it easy."
"I am taking it easy. I'm literally lying in bed doing nothing."
"You're trying to do your coursework." He nods toward the laptop balanced on my thighs. "That's not nothing."
"It's finishing my semester online. Which is the only reason I might actually pass my classes after missing a week." I close the laptop with more force than necessary. "Unless you think I should just give up on that too?"
The words come out sharper than I mean them to, edged with frustration that has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the mess my life has become. No job—Sharon was sympathetic but she can't hold my position indefinitely. No income. Hospital bills that make my stomach drop every time I think about them. A semester I'm barely holding together through sheer stubbornness.
And a body that betrayed me in ways I'm still trying to process.
Declan's expression shifts, something pained flickering behind his dark green eyes. "I think you should focus on healing. The rest will work itself out."
"Right. It'll just magically work itself out."
"Zo—"
"I'm fine." I cut him off before he can start another argument about letting him help with the bills. We've had this fight three times already. I'm not taking his money. I'm not becoming somekept woman who needs her boyfriend to pay her way through life. "Nia's coming by later. You don't need to babysit me."
He stares at me for a long moment, that muscle in his jaw working overtime. There's something else there too, something that's been present since I woke up in the hospital—this tension that radiates off him in waves. He looks at me sometimes like I'm going to disappear if he blinks too hard.
"I'm not babysitting you." His voice goes quiet in that way that means he's fighting to keep it level. "I'm taking care of you because I love you and you scared the shit out of me."
The words land heavy between us, weighted with everything we're both not saying. About the surgery. About what it means. About the future neither of us knows how to talk about anymore.
"I know." I force myself to soften because he doesn't deserve my anger. None of this is his fault. "I'm sorry. I just—I hate this. Hate being useless."
"You're not useless." He sits on the edge of the bed carefully, like he's afraid to jostle me. "You're healing from major surgery. There's a difference."
I want to believe that. Want to believe that lying in his bed accepting help and dependence doesn't make me weak or pathetic or any of the things that have terrified me since Mom died. But the fear sits heavy in my chest anyway, mixing with the pain medication until I can't tell which is making me more nauseous.
"Dec." I reach for his hand, need the solid warmth of him to anchor me. "We should talk about?—"
"Later." He cuts me off gently, thumb brushing across my knuckles. "When you're feeling better. Right now you need to rest."
There it is again—that pained expression, the tension in his shoulders, the way he can't quite meet my eyes. Something's wrong. Something beyond the obvious disaster of the past fewdays. But he's shutting me out and I don't have the energy to force the conversation.
The doorbell rings and Declan practically launches himself off the bed. "That's probably Nia."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me with the laptop and the water and the uncomfortable certainty that we're both avoiding something that's going to explode eventually.
Nia sweepsinto the bedroom fifteen minutes later carrying two iced coffees and enough righteous fury to power a small city.
"I cannot believe this happened to you." She sets one coffee on the nightstand and claims the chair Declan dragged in from the living room. "I swear to God, if I find out who was driving that car?—"
"Nia." I reach for the coffee carefully, grateful for the distraction. "We've been through this. Getting worked up won't change anything."
"It'll make me feel better." She crosses her legs, her natural curls pulled back in a puff that makes her look younger than twenty-two. "You could've died, Z. You understand that? You could've died and I would've had to plan your funeral and I don't know how to do that and I refuse to google it."
Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the mess—I laugh. It hurts my abdomen but I can't help it. "You'd be googling funeral planning?"
"Obviously. You think I know how to coordinate that shit?" She waves her hand dismissively. "But we're not talking about that because you're alive and you're going to stay that way. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a car and had my insides rearranged." I sip the coffee, cold and sweet and exactly what I needed. "So pretty normal for a Tuesday."
"Don't joke." Her expression goes soft, worried. "Seriously. How are you?"
The question digs deeper than she probably means it to. How am I? Physically broken. Financially fucked. Academically hanging on by a thread. And internally—internally I'm trying not to think about the fact that they removed parts of me, took away possibilities I hadn't even realized I was carrying.
