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But the constrictive band around my heart eased fractionally.
“Oh, baby,” I whispered, feeling sick to my stomach. “What did I let him do to you?”
CHAPTER 23
When I said I liked it rough, I didn’t mean my life.
-Gracelynn’s secret thoughts
GRACELYNN
Five Days Later
I’d been awake for three days now.
And in those three days, I’d done nothing but sulk.
After I was able to stay awake, anyway.
Meanwhile, the man that had become the center of my world had done nothing but wait on me hand and foot.
Not that he had any other option at this point.
I had no hands to do it myself.
And he felt bad because he’d inadvertently been the catalyst that’d caused Erich to act the way he’d acted.
Or, at least, that was what he kept saying.
Jeremiah wasn’t responsible for Erich’s actions. Erich was responsible for Erich’s actions. Yet, you couldn’t tell Jeremiah that.
What you could tell was that he was disgusted with himself, the situation, and how he’d handled the previous encounters with him.
I, on the other hand, knew the truth.
Erich was a crazy bastard.
And Erich’s mother was just as crazy. But not for the same reason.
She continued to scream, and yell, and demand from almost everyone that would listen that she get the full story from me.
She’d slipped past security twice.
And currently, that was what Jeremiah was doing—handling Rachel.
I, on the other hand, was attending my pity party of one.
I didn’t have any hands.
How did one even function without their hands?
How did I feed myself?
How did I button my own pants?
How did I drive a car?
How did I read a book?
How did I wipe my own ass?
Short answer? I didn’t.
Not right now, anyway.
In fact, in thirty seconds, a nurse would be coming in to help me do that.
Because I’d paged her by depressing the button with my damn elbow.
A nurse arrived at the same time that Jeremiah did.
He looked at me curiously when I flushed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sounding worried.
I scrunched up my nose and refused to answer.
“I need help going to the bathroom,” I whispered to the nurse.
The nurse nodded and started to help me off with my blankets.
Meanwhile, Jeremiah watched on with a clinical look on his face, as if he was memorizing the nurse’s movements.
“You can, uh, go back outside,” I suggested, really not wanting him there for what was about to happen next.
“I’ll stay,” he said. “Someone is going to have to be around you to help when we’re out of here this weekend.”
This weekend.
This weekend, I’d have to figure out how to wipe my own butt with my wrists.
I felt my eyes start to well with tears.
“If you’ll just give us a few minutes,” the nurse finally caught on to what was going on.
A woman was much more astute than a man was when it came to privacy while doing specific acts.
Such as pooping.
I had no clue that I’d ever have to worry about that part in particular, but now that I did… I didn’t know how to handle it.
“No.” Jeremiah shook his head. “I’ll stay.”
“Please leave,” I pleaded. “I need a minute.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not going to be doing anything in there that I don’t do.”
I gritted my teeth and tried not to explode, but there was something else I’d realized over the last few days.
When you’re helpless, you’re volatile.
And that volatility meant that I exploded at the drop of a hat.
“Leave!” I screamed. “For the love of God, Jeremiah! I need a goddamn second!”
The silence that followed my outburst was practically deafening.
But he left.
And I pooped with the help of a nurse.
I also felt like absolute garbage afterward.
“I suck,” I whispered to myself. “I suck so bad.”
I was depressed.
The doctors and nurses assured me that it was normal to feel that way after an amputation.
I didn’t care if it was normal or not.
I didn’t like how I was living my life.
I didn’t like not having hands.
I didn’t like not being able to do what I was used to doing.
And I most certainly didn’t like having Jeremiah try to do those things for me.
It was aggravating.
Which was why, when he came back in ten minutes later, wearing the same stupid shirt that he was in yesterday, I told him that he needed to go home and not come back until tomorrow.
Which worked about as well as I expected it to.
“I’m not leaving,” he grumbled. “I took a shower last night. I just couldn’t find any clean shirts. If I need another shower, I’ll take it here.”
The nurse came in with a new gown and some soap, and he looked between me and the nurse and back before saying, “I’ll help her shower.”
That’s when I said mean stuff I couldn’t take back.
“I don’t want you to help me,” I snarled. “I want to do it on my own.”
“Well, too fuckin’ bad,” he snapped. “Because you can’t anymore, can you?”
