Page 87 of Perfect Guy
Canaan
Ishiftonthe couch, searching for a comfortable position. My ribs hurt, and having only one functioning arm is driving me insane. Each time I try to reach out with both, the cast restricts me and reminds me of my careless action. One that holds more consequences than just my physical injuries.
My house is too quiet. I can’t even watch TV because it bothers my eyes. I know all of this is temporary, but I have to wonder what the permanent effects are. My memory is shit. I try to play it off when I ask someone something they already told me. It’s embarrassing.
I feel trapped.
I’m alone.
This isn’t me.
My family visits daily. Brayden has come with Joy a few times, and our relationship has gotten better. I guess I’m finally seeing him as a future brother-in-law than the dick who hurt my sister all those years ago. The one person I crave to see hasn’t even called or written to me, but I can’t blame her.
I take a deep breath and gingerly stand from the couch. My steps are slow and careful. The doctor said my ribs were healing when I visited him earlier this week. I still have about another three weeks before they’re fully healed, though. My broken arm still has about four more weeks, depending on how it progresses.
Someone rings the doorbell, and I groan. Thankfully, I’m already on my feet. Seeing some of the other volunteers through the peephole, I open the door and force a smile.
“Hey, guys.” I look at Mark, Jacob, and Grayson, our chief. These guys were with me the night of the accident. We’ve been working together for years.
“Hey,” Grayson says. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay. Come in.” As much as I dread having people over, their company is appreciated right now. I felt myself going down a spiral.
“I’m happy to hear that. It’s good to see you on your feet.”
“Thanks.”
We take a seat on the sofa, and the guys each take their turns asking me questions.
“I’m supposedly doing better. I still have a few weeks with this,” I point to my cast. “My ribs are healing, per my doctor.”
“That’s good,” Jacob nods. “You scared the shit out of us.”
“Fuck, yeah…” Mark shakes his head. “We weren’t sure if you’d survive.”
I cringe, knowing I worried them.
“I’m sorry.” I look at Grayson. “I acted on impulse. It was irresponsible, and I know better.”
Grayson nods, looking at me. I have no idea what this injury means in terms of my volunteering position. I’m not even sure what it means for my job. I’m out for the count for at least two more months. Bill will have to replace me, even if temporarily. He may not want to wait until I’m healed, no matter how much Madelyn says they’re all worried about me.
Madelyn.
I’m not going to think about her. I won’t.
“We’ve all acted on impulse before, especially when we think our loved ones are in danger,” Grayson says. “But it does no one any good if we aren’t levelheaded and safe. We can’t help others that way.” His lips are in a straight line, yet his eyes look at me in understanding.
“I know,” I nod. There’s not much to say besides that. I made a mistake. One that has consequences beyond what I thought possible. All my fault.
“Do you want anything to drink? I must have some beer in my fridge.”
“I’ll get them.” Grayson stands, walking into my kitchen.
“You look better than I thought,” Mark comments. “I wasn’t sure how you’d be.”
“Thanks. It hasn’t been fun; I’ll tell you that. Fortunately, I’m alive.” It’s what I remind myself each time I get frustrated.
“Yeah,” he nods.