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Dessie doesn’t give me a chance to respond, to tell her exactly why we broke up, before she steps back into the hallway. I chase after her, afraid of what she might say to Peyton, but when I get back to her room, she’s lying on her left side, facing away from the door. Her broken arm rests in front of her face, elevated slightly on a pillow. She doesn’t seem to flinch when I clear my throat. I go to her and press my lips to her ear. “I’m so sorry, Peyton.”
Those are the last words I say to her before leaving. I need time to think, to figure out what I have to do. Honestly, I’m not worried about whether Dessie is embarrassed. I know I should be, but Peyton’s happiness means more to me.
21
Peyton
It’s been thirty days since my life changed. No, I’m not talking about the accident. I’m talking about Noah telling me he’s in love with me and subsequently walking out the door to chase the woman carrying his baby. And in some twisted form of irony, this all happens in one freaking day, and I’m never given a chance to tell him how I feel or to say the words that were sitting on the tip of my tongue. Never mind the fact I couldn’t chase him because of my mangled body and broken heart after he whispered in my ear he was sorry. He couldn’t even be bothered to see if I was awake before he pushed me aside for Dessie.
She’s pregnant. I get it. The baby comes first. But at what expense, your own happiness? Mine? I’m selfish because for one brief moment I thought I had my best friend back. I thought I was going to have the man of my dreams and we’d ride off into the sunset with our families cheering us on. When in reality, it’s likely my accident that caused him to profess his love for me. The fear of losing someone can do that to a person.
Over the past month, everyone has asked how I’m doing. Fine. It’s always the answer. I have nothing else to say. I’m cooped up. If I’m not in bed, I’m in a wheelchair. And my heart is broken. No one will ever know or understand the pain Noah Westbury has caused me. He gave me a glimmer of hope, only to rip it away and hand it to Dessie.
“Good morning,” Jenna, my nurse says as she comes through my door, pushing a wheelchair, with an orderly right behind her. Normally, patients would leave intensive care, but my parents wanted the privacy so they paid who knows how much to keep me here. I don’t mind because I do love my nurse. She’s spent ample time in here, telling me about my first night and how she took care of me, waiting until my dad arrived. I’ll be forever grateful to her, for staying by my side so I wasn’t alone. “Are you dressed?” she asks.
“Yes, my mom and sister had the dubious task of helping me this morning. What’s going on? Is it time to leave?”
“Not quite, but we’re going to take you over to orthopedics and they’re going swap out your casts.”
“What? Are you serious? I’ll be able to bend my arm and leg?”
She nods happily.
“Oh thank God. I’ll be able to have a little independence.”
Jenna lowers my bed and helps me move down so Bob, the orderly, can pick me up. The drawback to intensive care is that the rooms are small and it’s hard to maneuver. As soon as I’m in the chair, Bob, who happens to be a former linebacker from Ohio State, pushes me down the hall. The nurses we pass tell me they want to sign my new cast when I come back. I look down at my thigh-high one now and try to make out the names.
When Betty Paige and Eden visited, they both decorated my casts with different drawings. Eden drew a water scene with a surfer. It was a guy and I teased her, asking her if he was her boyfriend. She turned red and my uncle Jimmy muttered something about a bloody bloke. Paige drew an elaborate garden scene with roses and vines weaving in and out of everyone’s signatures. I’m sad to be losing the artwork, but happy that the cast will be gone.
And finally, I get to choose my own colors. No more pink. When the physician’s assistant asks me what I want, I tell him black on the bottom because it’ll match most of the leggings I’ll be living in until it’s off, and blue for my arm.
When I’m done, only Bob is there to get me. Unfortunately, I still have to ride in the wheelchair. I haven’t used my legs in almost six weeks and won’t even be able to attempt doing so until I can get the cast off my arm, which according to the doctors won’t be for another six weeks or so. “Let’s detour for lunch,” I suggest.
