Page 114 of Conquering Conner

Even though I knew it was wrong, that I should have called her the second I knew he was wounded, I didn’t. I was relieved when he said it because it gave me and excuse. Justified my need to cut her out.

Just because I’m working on myself doesn’t mean I’m any less of an asshole.

“Where the hell are you getting all these Draw Fours, motherfucker?” Ryan’s glaring at me over the top of his cards. We’ve been playing Uno for the past hour. He hates it. Hates me. Hates pretty much everyone and everything. Most of the time, when I pull out the deck, he slaps it out of my hand and tells me to fuck off. Today he just glared at me and said, “Deal ‘em, bitch.”

It’s a good day.

“I pulled em’ out of your vagina,” I drawl, tossing down a red Skip card, followed by a Wild. “Blue,” I say, changing the color before dropping a numbered card. He hasn’t asked me about Henley. How her time here went. What happened. Where she is now. I don’t know if it’s because he doesn’t want to know or if he forgot she was supposed to be here in the first place.

Ryan looks at the last card I laid down, studying it before reverting his gaze to the cards in his hand. Nearly a minute later he’s getting frustrated, the muscle in his cheek twitching while he gnaws a hole in his bottom lip.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “It’s a two.”

“I know what the fuck it is, dickbag,” he barks at me, a second before he throws his cards on the table. “Fuck this bullshit game.”

“This bullshit game is helping to rebuild your cognitive functioning.” I gather the cards, careful not to look at him when I say it. When I suggest that he’s less than fully functional, he get defensive. Which usually means we end up on the ground while he tries to pull my head off my shoulders. “What’s the matter, you got another Draw Four stuck in naughty spot?”

When he doesn’t laugh, I risk a glance up. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s looking out the window. Patrick scored him a private room in some swanky private rehab. It’s a nice place. Decent food. State-of the-art rehab center. He hates it here but like I said, he hates everything.

“Just tell me I’m gonna get better.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. “If you tell me I’m going to get better, I’ll believe you.”

I don’t hesitate. “You’re going to get better.”

He nods. “I’ve gotta get the fuck out of this place.”

He’s only been here a few months and it’s a damn sight better than the place I pulled him out of, but I don’t remind him of that. “I know.” I wrap a rubber band around the deck of cards in my hand and toss them in my backpack. “Cap’n’s working on it.”

Before he can say what he usually says, which is tell him to work faster, the door to his room opens and a large male nurse pushing a wheelchair strolls in. “It’s that time, Mr. O’Connell.”

Physical therapy. Every day at 2PM.

I watch the muscle in Ryan’s jaw work and clench around what I’m sure are a string of curse words camped out in his mouth. On the mile-long list of things he hates, PT is at the top of the list. If you ask him why, he’ll tell you it’s because it’s bullshit like everything else, but the real reason is because it’s hard and it hurts.

Given the way I’ve spend these last ten weeks, I can relate.

As soon as he’s out the door with a see ya later, fuckface, I zip up my backpack and shoulder. Instead of heading for the door, I make my way to the free-standing cabinet by the bathroom. Opening it, I pull out the worn manila envelope where the nurses in Germany put his personal affects. They gave it to me when I got there because they were pretty sure he was going to die.

Pulling the flap, I pour its contents into my hand.

His dog tags.

A smooth, flat stone about as big as my thumb.

The ring I gave his sister.

I don’t know where he got it or why he has it. Why he’s been carrying it around with him all these years. It doesn’t really matter.

I come here to spend time with Ryan. I coax him into playing stupid card games and talk shit because he’s family and he needs me. Because he is going to get better.

And when he leaves for PT, I pour this envelope into my hand and give myself a gut-check.

I hold the ring I gave Henley in my hand for as long as I can. Until I can’t stand it anymore. Until I feel myself start to crack.

Then I put it away and pretend to move on.

“Conner?”

I hear my name as I pass the nurses’ station and I look up, expecting to see someone I slept with. Prepared to make non-committal small-talk for a few minutes before making an excuse to leave, I’m surprised by who I’m looking at.

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