Page 3 of Heart of Thorns

I used to be the girl everyone wanted to be around. Now, evenIdon’t want to be around me.

Lydia leans forward, closing her laptop. “Do you want hel?—”

“No,” I snap.

I rest my forehead against the living room doorway, a hiss escaping my lips. My bag is slung over one shoulder, and I’m ready to walk out the door. Crawling back into bed soundssomuch better, but if I don’t physically force myself to get out of the apartment, I’ll stay here forever.

“I’m fine.” I soften my tone a little.

Lydia has been nothing but kind to me. She continues to offer help and does things around the apartment that she probably thinks I don’t notice.

Like when she rearranged the furniture to give me more space to move around, or how shealwaysempties the trash, knowing I struggle with it. She turns the thermostat to near arctic temperatures without complaining because she knows I’d sweat to death before I choose to wear shorts or anything that shows off my leg.

She sighs. Setting aside the laptop, she grabs her hockey gear from the floor next to the table. “Fine. I’ll see you after practice?”

I nod, hiding my resentment with a neutral expression, and scoot out of her way.

There’s a twisted part of me that wants to hate her so bad, but it’s not her fault that I’m unable to play hockey this season.

After my surgery, I was told I’d walk with a limp for the rest of my life. The metal in my leg will cause arthritis and discomfort for years to come. The doctors told me there may even be a time when I opt for another surgery to accommodate my healing.

But they were wrong about the limp. I only limp when I’m extra sore. With weeks of intensive physical therapy—the sanctioned kind and the tips I found on the internet—I’m heading in the right direction.

They could be wrong about me never playing hockey, too, which is why I’m holding out hope for next season.

After half dragging my sore leg toward the table, I swoop up the remainder of my books and phone. I have a text from my friend, Marley.

Marley

Want a ride today?

Do I want a ride? Yes.

Should I get a ride? No.

Walking the two blocks to the arts building will hurt, but moving is the best way to stretch my leg. I need my agility and stamina back, especially now that school is in session. If I snag a ride with Marley to my art history class, it’ll be like taking the easy way out, and I refuse to do that.

Me

I need to walk today. I’m stiff. I’ll see you soon.

Marley

I’m stiff, too. For you.

I huff under my breath, which is practically a laugh. It’s the closest I come to humor nowadays.

Outside, I inhale the cool air and start down the sidewalk. It only takes one minute before I’m shouting at some jock for narrowly missing me on his run. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap that has SVU embroidered on the front. I’d bet my life that he is a baseball player.

Not because of the hat he’s wearing.

No—his bag is half open, and baseballs fall out every few seconds.

What the fuck is this? An obstacle?

Four months ago, I was weaving in between my opponents on thin ice, scoring goals and rushing the arena with my team. At the moment, I can barely navigate baseballs rolling down the sidewalk.

Dodging errant baseballs, I opt to walk in the street. If I step off the sidewalk, it’ll hurt. It’s the height difference… I wince and shut my eyes for a brief second. But instead of my toes touching asphalt, I’m jerked backward.

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