Page 79 of Perfect Guy

Canaan

Mybodyistight and tired. Walking is exhausting. I’m glad to be home, but it doesn’t magically make me feel better. I don’t know how this happened, how I was so careless. From what they told me, I ran out, afraid it was Joy in that accident. I vaguely remember that before everything went black.

Now, I’m dealing with the consequences. I’d do anything for my sister, though, and if her survival was in my hands, I’d run into any dangerous situation. It wasn’t Joy in that car, but unfortunately, the man who was driving didn’t make it. I was luckier. I remind myself of that when my emotions get the best of me. Not only sadness, anger, too. I have to control it, keep it at bay, so no one notices, especially Madelyn.

She’s been at the hospital every day since I’ve been there. She’s held my hand, spoken to me, sat in silence when we’ve both needed it. I don’t know how long I’ll feel like this and if she’ll continue to come around to take care of me.

My parents wanted me to stay with them until I was fully healed, but I wanted to be home, in my own space. I don’t want to be babied or constantly checked on. I need to be alone. Processing what happened has been difficult. I feel like now that I’m home, it’ll all hit me, and I don’t want someone on top of me while I figure this out.

A knock on the door makes me groan. I don’t want to stand up. Maybe if I’m quiet, the person on the other side will think I’m sleeping and leave. It’s only ten in the morning, so I could very well be asleep, considering my situation.

I’ve only been home one night, and sleeping in the hospital was hell between the uncomfortable mattress and nightly check-ins—not to mention the killer headaches. The doctor said it was normal, but they’re excruciating.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, and I reach for it. I grimace when I overextend. My ribs are still broken.

Madelyn: Hey, are you awake? I stopped by with some breakfast but will leave it at the door for you to grab when you wake up if you’re sleeping XO

I sigh, feeling guilty. I can’t shut her out, though I’m tempted to. The doctor also said that would be normal—irritability and mood swings. Too many new normals in my life that aren’t healthy. Madelyn doesn’t deserve that, though. I promised I’d always show her how worthy she was, that she deserved a good man. I’m questioning if I’m still that man for her.

I’m slow to stand and drag my feet toward the door. When I open it, Madelyn is squatted down, placing the bag by the front door.

“Hey,” she glances up at me with a smile. It’s tentative, nothing like the carefree version I was used to.

“Hi. Sorry, I was a little slow to get to the door,” I lie. It doesn’t sit well with me, but it’s better than telling her I didn’t want any visitors.

“It’s okay. I made some muffins and bought decaf coffee since the doctor suggested not having caffeine. I can leave it and go if you want. You must be tired. Sorry, I should’ve called before showing up.” She’s rambling, and I don’t miss the way her words begin to sound shaky.

I take a deep breath and open the door wider. “Don’t go.”

“Are you sure?” She bites her lower lip.

“Yeah.” I step back while she shoulders the bag and enters my house.

“How did you sleep?” She looks at me with caution, and it kills me. Seeing her insecurities around me adds to the pain of this recovery.

“Good. Better than at the hospital.”

“Did you take your medicine already? I figured it’d be good if you ate before you did.”

“Not yet.” My response is short, and she flinches.

I close my eyes, breathing slowly to calm down. “Sorry,” I whisper.

We’re both awkward and stilted. Madelyn places the bag on the counter and pulls out a container with muffins. I grab mugs. She grabs the decaf coffee and starts preparing the coffee maker.

It seems normal to anyone observing, but it’s not natural for us. We aren’t distant like this. I’d be touching her, even if roaming a finger down her arm. She’d be laughing and moving around with ease.

While I’m aware of this, I don’t know how to fix it. I feel weird. I can observe the differences but not act to correct them.

“I hope you like them.” Madelyn hands me a plate with a muffin. “They’re blueberry.”

“Thanks.” I sit at the counter and watch her fill the coffee mugs and add a splash of milk to both.

“You don’t have to drink decaf.”

She tilts her head and arches a brow. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Her sass is back.

I smirk to myself. Maybe she won’t let me spiral. Maybe she’ll fight for us when I don’t have the strength to.