Page 28 of Kept By the Loan Shark

Chapter Nine

“Are you sure you don’t want to take my bed?” Taylor asked for the fifth time since moving me into her apartment earlier that day.

“I’m sure.” Gesturing to the chair recliner where I planned to sleep, I explained, “I feel better when I’m upright. It’s how I slept in the hospital.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly. “But, if you change your mind, just wake me up, and we’ll switch.”

“Sure,” I agreed, knowing she wouldn’t rest unless I promised.

“And if you get sick, just yell.”

“I will.”

“And if you need anything—a glass of water or a snack or medicine—just yell.”

“Taylor,” I laughed, “go to sleep. I’ll be fine.”

She clearly didn’t believe me and reluctantly left the living room. When she was at her bedroom door, she called out, “I’m leaving my door open so I can hear you if you need help!”

I snorted. “Okay. Thanks.”

Grateful to have such a good friend, I switched off the lamp in the corner and settled into the recliner. After eight days in the hospital, it was an absolute relief to be able to sit in a dark, cool place without the constant beep of machines in the background or well-meaning nurses waking me when they came into the room to check my IV or give me medicine. I sunk back into the plush chair and exhaled slow, deep breaths, letting the exhaustion I felt overwhelm me and drag me closer to sleep.

But the nagging, painful replay of Hagen walking out on me, leaving me alone in the hospital to never return, wouldn’t let me rest. My injured brain seemed intent on torturing me with the memory of his broad shoulders disappearing through the door. No phone calls. Not even a text. He had just left. He had ended everything without another word.

Not wanting to cry again, knowing it would give me a headache and make me nauseated, I managed to breathe through the gut-wrenching emotional pain and turn my thoughts toward other things. Because I had ended my lease, I had no place to go. Kyle had packed up my place for me and stored my things at his until I could find somewhere else. He had offered, again, to let me move into his second bedroom, but I couldn’t stand the sight of the complex. I didn’t want to live somewhere that would force me to relive the memory of being beaten every time I walked out into the parking lot.

Staying with Taylor was the best solution for now. She had a lead on a sublet that another grad student needed was advertising. It was within my price range, close to campus and a block’s walk from the METRO Red Line that ran toward Rice. If I could snag it, I could move in and get settled by the end of the week. Hopefully.

And then I could start the grueling process of moving on.

Moving on from my injury. Moving on from the failure of my relationship. Moving on toward the future that awaited me in California or Massachusetts.

I slept better that night in Taylor’s living room than I had since my injury. Feeling well-rested, I woke up before Taylor and folded my blanket and tucked it under the pillow. I made sure the space I was borrowing was tidy before carefully making my way to the bathroom. I tried to be as quiet as possible while Taylor snoozed in her bedroom. I had already put my clothes for the day and my toiletries in her bathroom the night prior so I wouldn’t have to make much noise.

After I showered and got dressed, I emerged from the bathroom to find her sitting up in bed, staring at her phone. “Morning.”

“Morning,” she said, smiling at me. “You know,” she stretched her arms overhead and yawned, “I think we should egg his house. Like toilet paper, eggs, shaving cream—the whole shebang. Just fuck his place right up.”

The idea of working out my anger toward Hagen with a little juvenile vandalism held some appeal. Still, there was a chance that he might come back and make things right so I said, “Let’s table that for now.”

She pouted. “Fine.”

“Can you help brush out my hair?” It felt silly to have to ask for help doing something I had been able to handle since I was a child. “My arms are still weak, and I can’t feel the wound very well. It’s numb all around it, and I don’t want to accidentally grab the stitches.”

“Dude,” she said and held out her hand for the comb and brush I carried, “get over here and let me help you.”

I settled onto the bed in front of her, and she began to gently comb through my tangled and matted hair. The blood, bandages and electrode gel used to monitor my brain had made an absolute mess of my hair. Taylor had helped me wash it the night before they discharged me, but we didn’t dare try to comb it without plenty of conditioner on hand.

“Good call leaving in the conditioner,” she said while tugging the comb through the ends of my hair. “There’s a mat closer to your stitches that I’m going to leave alone. I don’t want to pull and make you bleed.”

“I guess we should go to Target and find a few hats for me to wear out in public,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

“Not a bad idea,” she agreed, working her way through the next section of hair. “Do you want me to check your phone for messages from Hagen?”

Since I couldn’t focus on any kind of screen without getting dizzy and wanting to hurl, Taylor had been the one to send a few messages to Hagen for me. One had been to see when he was coming back to the hospital the day following our argument. The other had been to let him know I was being discharged. The final one had been to let him know I was staying at Taylor’s place for now. None had been answered or even read.

“Sure.”

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