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“I can ask her, but this is still my house.” Mina will be fine with it. I’m sure. Mostly sure. Nic’s still filming, anyway. It’s not like he’s around all that often. “But if you’re going to be a dick to her because you hate happiness, you can leave.”
“I’m not going to be a dick. I’m happy for you.”
He’s not happy, he’s worried I’ll get hurt. I’ll be too much for Mina. He has a point—I can be a lot—but Mina can take me. I’m pretty sure.
Doubts creep in like they always do, and maybe I need to cover my bases. Give her a million reasons to stay.
Mina takes the next twenty-four hours and obliterates those doubts. She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she was jumping—she’s all in, holding nothing back, showing me in every kiss, touch, and look how much she loves me. She might be scared, but she’s trusting me to catch her. I love her even more for it. Plus, it’s hot as hell.
We spend most of the day in my bed, exploring each other and all the gentle ways we can come together. Mostly, we cuddle. Mina’s still worried about my head, but it’s been nearly a month since the accident. The headaches are gone and I’m itching for some semblance of normal. Especially when the man I see in the mirror looks fine. Apart from the patches of hair they shaved off, anyway.
Mina forces me to slow down and the unhurried, deep sex we’re having is brain-meltingly good. I’m already imagining how good it will be when I’m “allowed” more strenuous activity. It’s annoying I need a doctor’s note to fuck her against a wall.
Mina and I are cleaning up dinner when the front door swings open and Nic walks in, turning to say something over his shoulder to…
Danny. Curtis. The entire damn stunt crew pours into my house behind him, everyone talking at once.
“Hey, Timbo!” Danny roars, holding a six-pack of beer and a bag packed to the brim with snacks up in the air as people jostle to slip shoes off at the door.
Dex is the last one in.
Our eyes meet and he looks down at his feet, but not before sneaking a glance at Mina that turns my stomach.
“Ready to lose some money?” Danny asks, drawing my attention away, a wide grin splitting his face.
“Poker night,” Nic says, and the way his gray eyes are watching me is unsettling. Like he’s judging my response.
I can count on one hand the number of times Nic invited people over to my house, or his.
This is an intervention.
Mouths are moving and eyes are crinkling in smiles directed at me and I assume people are saying something—it’s been a while, they were worried, I’m looking good, that sort of tripe. I can’t hear any of it. Just the flatline alarm of my previous life.
Mina touches my arm, and I realize I’ve frozen.
Nope. I’m out.
I can’t get upstairs without getting close to the crowd and I don’t want their hugs and their back slaps or the pity underneath it all, so I walk into the living room, step onto the couch, then the back of the couch. Grabbing the railing of the stairwell, I swing myself over onto the first landing, ignoring Mina’s alarmed shout.
“I need to call someone.” I meet Nic’s eyes. He has the nerve to look disappointed. “Jessie,” I add, because it’s the only way to get back at him. His jaw tics, so I’m claiming victory. “I need to call my sister. You guys have fun. Catch you later.” I take the remaining stairs two at a time.
“Timothy—”
Mina’s voice halts me but after a second I keep going. She knew about this, didn’t she? Did I disappoint her too? When I’m safely in my room, I close the door, stuff my shaking hands in my pockets, and hide in the closet.
Too late, should’ve picked the bathroom.
My snowboard is still sitting in the corner. I can smell the snow, feel the bracing cold on my face, the thrill of going weightless when I fly through the air.
It’s not fair and the fact that physically, I could still do any of this stuff and be fine kills me.
The door to my room opens and closes, the footfalls to the closet soft.
“I told you no company,” I say to Mina. I’m sitting, my back against some built-in drawers. I don’t remember sliding to the floor.
Mina comes closer until her toes touch mine. “You need to stop hiding,” she says in a firm voice that immediately turns me into a petulant four-year-old.
“I’m not hiding.”
