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“I do.” My mother raises her hand, but the doctor ignores her.
“—and go through life scared of every little bump. But you don’t have to run toward the big risksyou do not have to take. Find a less dangerous job.”
“And new hobbies.” My mother crosses her arms.
The doctor’s eyes narrow. “Those too.”
I tip my head back and close my eyes. “Just ruin my life.”
“For the moment, you have a life,” the doc says. “You’re looking to make a full recovery. Next time, that might not be the case. Make an appointment with that therapist. Or better yet, a real one.”
The doctor stands and promises to check in on me tomorrow, vaguely mentioning if I’m doing well in a few days, they’ll talk about discharging me. Then she’s gone and Mom is standing next to my bed looking triumphant.
I look away, my eyes landing on a cheery orange and yellow Mylar balloon with the words “get well soon” across the front. If getting up didn’t make my headache worse, I’d pop it with my bare hands. Every balloon in here. I’d rip the flowers to shreds and…okay, I couldn’t hurt the stuffed animals—I’m crushed under the weight of my broken ego, but I’m not a monster.
“It’s for the best, sweetie,” my mom says softly.
It’s my fucking life. It’s who I am, and suddenly, just like that, I’m not? No, it’s notfor the best.
It’s how I channel my energy. Without it, I’m scattered, pulled in twenty directions. I’m out of control and impulsive. Mom should understand—I know she hasn’t forgotten my teenage years. I rigged a zip line from the second floor of our house to a tree in the yard, for fuck’s sake. Took the car for a joyride before I had my license. Skied off the roof, once. It didn’t matter how many activities they enrolled me in—martial arts and gymnastics and soccer and track—it wasn’t enough.
And now what? I’m thirty-three and I’m supposed to get a normal nine-to-five? Sit at a desk all day? Just thinking about it makes me itch all over.
A balloon bobs in a current of air I can’t feel in this stifling room. All these people believe in me, they’ll be waiting for me to recover, and I’m supposed to let them down?
Fuck that. Fuck all of it. That’s not who I am.
“My head hurts.” It does, but mostly I want Mom to go away. “Can you do me a favor on your way out? Get rid of all this shit?” I wave my arm at the flowers, balloons, and stuffed animals.
Mom’s face softens. She still doesn’t understand, but she must feel my pain. “Yeah, honey. I’ll take care of it. Get some sleep.”
I hold the little red box tighter in my hand. I still have this. If Mina says yes, I can deal with the rest later, and I won’t have to face it alone. But right now—headache. I need to sleep.
My dream is slow to let me go and I cling to it as long as I can, but pain edges into my awareness.
Someone is sitting on my bed, holding my hand, feather-light touches tracing over the back of it. Mina’s perfume floats around me. “Come here,” I murmur. I can barely open my eyes or move beyond holding out my arm.
I think she’s going to say no, but after a moment, she slips off her shoes and climbs into my bed, tucking herself under my arm. She curls into me, warm and soft in the best places. Sometimes, when we watch movies at her place, we end up cuddled on her couch like this. Okay, so it only happens if I manage to sneak a scary movie on, but I get away with it more often than I should.
I kiss the top of her head and fall asleep.
A nurse comes in to check on my bandages. Mina’s asleep, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, exactly where it belongs. The nurse smiles, and I smile back. I get a thumbs up. The nurse leaves and I notice, before I fall asleep again, the balloons and flowers are gone. The stuffed animals too.
Mina’s not in bed with me when I wake next. She’s sitting in the chair, staring out the window and tapping the ring box on her leg. Guess she found it in my bed. Not exactly how I wanted to do this, but I’m not waiting for the right time anymore.
“I was dreaming about you,” I say.
Her eyes move slowly toward me, over my sheet-clad body. Her eyebrows go up slightly when she reaches my hips and I glance down because there is no way—
Huh. Massive tent. I’m impressed, considering the headache and the drugs still in my system. Pretty sure I couldn’t get it up intentionally right now.
“It was a good dream,” I add weakly. My throat’s dry again.
“You’re such a dick.” There’s a rueful little smile on Mina’s lips, though, as she stands to hand me the water I could easily reach myself. I hope it meansOh, Timothy, you’re ridiculously handsome, and as soon as the doctor clears you for sex—
Best not to follow that train of thought or the next doctor or nurse to walk in will whisk me off to the medical marvels ward. Not a real thing? Well, it would be. Named after me. The Timothy Foley Massive Dick Ward.
I snort a laugh. It hurts like hell and the laugh transforms into a wince.
