Page 48 of Warrior's Walk
“All right, here’s what I’ve got. Laundry day,” West starts.
Mandy groans. “Laundry day? None of those words we gave you have anything to do with laundry.”
West grins. “That’s the point. The wicker basket overflowed with a ginormous load of dirty clothes. Most were stained by darts and farts.” Mandy snickers and West laughs before continuing. “Sometimes, they get downright filthy with the grinding and the gloating. If you toss them in the washing machine with a ginormous helping of laundry soap, you can usually get them sparkling clean and smelling sweet and delicious like avocados.”
Mandy smiles. “Not as good as your space alien one, but I laughed, so it worked.”
“You do these often?” I ask.
“Yeah, I’ve always got this pad handy. It passes the time. We spend a lot of time in waiting rooms, don’t we, Nutter buddy?”
“Unfortunately,” Mandy agrees.
A weight drops into the pit of my stomach. This is what I have to look forward to. When you have a chronic injury, the kind you’re going to spend the rest of your life with, like mine, like Mandy’s burns, and West’s leg, you become very intimate with waiting rooms and doctor’s offices. It’s an eye-opening glimpse into my future.
“I better get myself a Mad Libs pad.”
West rubs his thigh just above his amputation site and grimaces. “You know, I’m actually thinking of borrowing your origami book. I could use some variety.”
“You can borrow it any time. At this point, I don’t think Liza expects I’ll ever give it back.”
“Hey, are you coming over to stay with us after this?” West asks Mandy.
“Yeah, I’ve got a bag packed in the back of Rhett’s car.”
“You know, you’re welcome to come stay with me.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Mandy says graciously, “but at his house, I’ve got my own room. All you’ve got is the couch.”
“It’s a nice couch,” I insist. “And I don’t mind sharing the bed with you; it’s plenty big enough.”
“If you think I’m sleeping on those kids’ sheets, you’re nuts,” he laughs. “I’m pretty sure I know what you do on those sheets.”
West straight-up cackles. “Should I even ask why you have kid sheets on your bed?”
“I didn’t buy them,” I defend hotly. “Riggs did.”
“Oh, this I’ve got to hear,” he insists.
But before I can explain, the nurse calls Mandy’s name. “Wish me luck,” he says grimly.
“Good luck,” West calls.
“Break a leg,” I add. West’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head.
“Not here,” he advises, looking sideways to see if we drew attention. “It doesn’t go over well with this crowd. You should stop by our house tomorrow. We always have a movie day when Mandy is recovering. All the Bitches will stop by with a care package and there’ll be food.”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” It seems like these guys are determined to make a friend of me, no matter my reservations.
He grins wickedly. “Now, tell me about those sheets.”
Group with the guys is never boring, but I could have skipped today, since it seems to be focused solely on me. Well, me and Riggs.
As usual, he’s the last to arrive, taking his seat after everyone’s already present and pulling their knitting out of their bags. I haven’t even attempted knitting yet, so I pull out my origami instead. Liza sent me an envelope of colorful printed paper in the mail. It sure beats using the BALLS brochures.
There’s an undercurrent in the room I’m picking up on, some sort of inside joke, evident by the whispered conversations and covert glances I’ve witnessed since taking my seat. Of course, I’m not a part of it, but that’s my choice. I chose to keep these guys at arm’s length, for… reasons, and if they don’t include me in their inner circle, then that’s on me, not them.
Even yesterday when I stopped by West and Brandt’s home to check on Mandy, I felt out of place and on edge throughout the entire movie. I was the only guy who didn’t bring a care package, and I was the only guy not complaining about watchingTop Gun. I also chose to sit in a chair by myself in the corner, instead of trying to dogpile onto the bed with the rest of the guys,mostly to protect my leg from getting kicked accidentally, but it just added to the solitary feeling.