Page 88 of Perfect Guy

Grayson returns with beers and a water bottle for me. I’m not sure how he knew, but I’m grateful I didn’t have to awkwardly turn down my own beer. We talk for a while. The guys tell me about work and their own personal lives. It feels good to relax a bit and think about something that isn’t the torment of this injury and my attitude toward it.

“Thanks for coming.” I clap the guys’ hands and smile. “I needed this.”

“If you need anything, just call us. We’re here for you.” Grayson squeezes my shoulder. He’s a year younger than me, but being chief makes him like our big brother.

“Thanks. Once I’m all healed, we’ll go out for a beer.” I have to look at the future and hope my life will go back to normal despite the uncertainty of my side effects.

When they leave, the house is quiet again. I grab my phone and open my messages. I’m tempted to send one to Madelyn, but I let her walk away…twice.

I’m not the same man. I can tell. I get frustrated easily, and my mood changes at the snap of a finger. One moment I’m laughing, and the next, I’m despondent.

There’s no way she’ll want me like this. I can’t even remember some of the conversations we’ve had or when she’d tell me she was coming to visit. I’d question her showing up at my house like a dickhead. It’s all fuzzy. She deserves someone who’s fully present, and I can’t be that for her.

It wasn’t the right approach, but I closed her off and made her feel unwelcome so she’d leave on her own. I knew she wouldn’t put up with much of my pissy attitude and disregard for her. She has respect for herself. Hearing her say she loved me, even if it was in a moment of anger, killed me. I love her, too, but not like this. I can’t have her wasting her life taking care of me. What if I’m never fully healed. No matter what the doctors say, the brain is a tricky part of the body.

In the next few weeks, I might seem okay, but what if, years down the line, I get some kind of illness that is part of the aftermath of this? Madelyn doesn’t deserve that.

I may have purposefully been a dick, but it was for her own good. Letting her walk away—no matter how hard it was—is the best solution. It’s easier than watching her suffer because I can’t give her what she wants and needs.

I’m no good for her.

I read through our old messages, smiling to myself. I miss her like crazy. I miss her smile and laugh. I miss her gentle touch and the way she curls up beside me. The sweet scent of her perfume.

It’s better this way.

When I get to a joke I told her, I pause, reading her response over and over again.

You’re ridiculous, but I like you. A whole lot

I blow out a breath, rubbing my eyes. I could call her, tell her to come over and talk. Explain what’s going on. But I’d still be injured, and the repercussions are still unknown. I’ve been reading up on the long-term effects. While it’s not always the case, I could suffer from quite a few. I’ll never be the man she fell in love with.

I don’t know if she could love this version of me. I’ve already caused her more pain than joy. She won’t put up with a lifetime of that. My guilt over it will tear us apart worse than it already has.

I shut my eyes, feeling my emotions clogged in my throat. I made a choice, and I have to live with the consequences. Madelyn doesn’t.

“The doctor had good news to share,” Joy smiles at me as she drives home from the hospital. I had an appointment to follow up on my brain injury, and the scans seem to be positive. I’m closer to being healed, but the talk we had with the doctor has stuck with me.

“Yeah,” I nod.

“He said the injury in your brain is healing. You should be experiencing fewer and fewer symptoms in the coming days.” Her voice rings with hope.

I blow out a breath and nod, leaning my head back on the seat and watching the cars go by on the highway.

“Have you talked to Madelyn?” Joy’s question comes out measured and slow.

“No.” It’s been a few days since I stared at our messages and missed her after the guys left my house.

“I know things aren’t one-hundred-percent between you two.”

I clench my jaw.

“Maybe you could talk?” Joy insists when I don’t respond.

“Let it be,” I bite.

“Why should I? I’m your sister. I care about you and want you to be happy. This isn’t a reason for you to break up.” She waves a hand toward me while keeping her other one on the steering wheel and her eyes on the road.

“You don’t understand.”