Page 8 of What About Us

“Oh, I’m so glad I caught you. I have news for you. There’s an athlete in town who injured his knee, and he requires full-time therapy so he can go back to his sport as soon as possible, which I’m pretty sure is going to take at least another six months.”

My brow furrows as I listen.

Holy shit, this sounds amazing.

“And because you’re the one therapist on staff who trained to work with elite athletes, I immediately thought of you. I’d pull you off the hospital rotation, and you’d have to work a couple more days a week, but this would be your only priority until the patient is recovered.”

“Sara, you do know that this is literally my dream job, right?”

She chuckles on the other end of the line. “I knew you’d say that. Since it’s Friday, you’ll start on Monday, and I’ll send through the patient’s contact information along with his chart so you can get familiar with everything over the weekend.”

“Great, thank you. Who’s the patient?”

“Oh, sorry, I thought I said. It’s Xander Hendrix. You know, the hockey player?”

Xander Hendrix.

Yeah, I know him.

I’ve only been in love with him since I was fifteen, and he barely acknowledges I exist.

Awesome.

“Yes, of course I know Xander. Okay, thanks Sara.”

“Let me know if you need anything.”

She ends the call, and I close my eyes as my stomach suddenly explodes with butterflies. I’m going to be working closely with Xander Hendrix for months.

This is both thrilling and nauseating.

But I don’t have time to think about that right now.

I climb the steps to the apartment above the bar, where my mom has lived since before I was born. My biological dad died when I was a baby, leaving the bar to my mom. There have been stepdads who came and went. The one who stuck around since I was a teenager, Chris, left three months ago. And honestly, I can’t blame him.

He ran the bar for close to twenty years and took care of everything, all while dealing with an abusive, addict of a wife.

So it’s been a fun few months without him here.

I knock on the door, but Mom doesn’t answer, and I lean my forehead against the wood.

“Come on, Mom.”

I knock again, but when there’s still no answer, I use my key to unlock the door and push inside, wrinkling my nose against the stench of cigarettes and stale booze. I think I smell rotten food, too, which has me pulling my sweatshirt up over my nose.

“Mom?”

She’s not in the living room, which tells me she’s passed out in bed.

Great.

I walk back and, sure enough, find her in bed, the covers pulled up over her head, snoring.

“Mom, you need to wake up.”

I pull the covers back and almost gag again. She needs a shower bad. Her gray-streaked blond hair is greasy, and she has crumbs from something by her lip.

And, of course, she’s cradling a bottle of vodka like it’s a baby.