Page 66 of Game Face

Pointless.

Wyatt has been sitting with me in silence for an hour. I think he can sense I don’t want talk. It’s not only that I’m disappointed, but rather that I feel completely defeated. And unworthy.

“Peyton?” The nurse who’s been taking my vitals today pops her head into my room, and both Wyatt and I lean forward, awaiting her words.

“Yeah?” I croak.

“Your parents are pulling around. It’s time to head home. We’ll bring the wheelchair in a minute.”

Such succinct instructions. Nothing about them makes me feel empowered. Someone else will push me down the hall. Someone else will drive me home. I won’t be going to my apartment at school or waking up the next day to take a new step forward. I’ll be working on getting out of bed again and straightening my leg, forcing it to feel the ground beneath it.

“Groundhog Day,” I utter.

“Huh?” Wyatt breathes out.

I shake my head.

“It’s like that movie, the one where he lives the same day over and over?Groundhog Day? Until he can figure out the magic thing that lets him move on to the next day.” My parents love that movie. That movie and everything Adam Sandler has ever made. When other kids watched cartoons, I watchedHappy Gilmore.

“I remember that one,” Wyatt says, moving his hand along my back. His fingertips touch the scar on my spine. It feels different, and I shudder.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling his hand away.

I shake my head.

“It doesn’t hurt. I just . . . hate it.”

His eyes drop and he slides off the bed.

“Oh.”

“It’s not you. I mean, I hate what that scar represents. And I’m going to hate the new one, too. And then next month, ha! Probably something else.” I flap my arms at my side, and Wyatt’s gaze stays on my hands for a beat.

“You know, last time you couldn’t move your arm all that much at the start. So, it’s not all gone.” His eyes flit up to me, but I can’t meet his stare. I can feel the flat line of my mouth.

Wyatt helps me move to the edge of the bed when the nurse comes with the chair, and he follows along as I’m pushed to the elevator, then down to the lobby where my dad takes over, guiding me out to my grandmother’s car. They decided to swap out my mom’s SUV today for something with a lower profile. It’s easier to climb into a sedan.

“I’ll see you at the house,” Wyatt says, taking my hand briefly as my mom helps me straighten my legs in the passenger seat.

“Oh, you don’t have to—” He’s gone before I finish, and when I turn to face my mom, she levels me with look of pity.

“Don’t,” I say, not wanting the lecture about pushing people away.

“I’ll stop if you stop,” she says, and as pissed off as her retort makes me, it also makes me puff out a tiny laugh.

My dad climbs into the back seat and we make the long drive home. The driveway is packed with cars, which means everyone is here—both sets of grandparents, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Jason, and Wyatt’s mom. My parents had planned on having everyone over for dinner, and I guess they didn’t change the plans despite, well, fuckingthis.

We pull in and park, Wyatt coming to a stop behind us, and my dad rushes around the car to open my door. In seconds, it’s nothing but hands reaching in for me. It overwhelms my senses, and nobody seems to be able to figure out the best way to get me out of the car. What’s worse? Nobody seems to be asking me—the one needing out of the fucking car!

“Just . . . stop!” I slap my thighs, and the sting on my skin of each leg hurts equally. I blink for a second, registering that fact and putting it in my new book of wins. If I’m going to do this all again, I need to do it my way. And people need to listen.

“Wyatt, help me get out of this low-rider. Mom and Dad? Go inside. Get dinner going so we can all eat, and then everyone can go back to where they came from, and I can go to bed.”

My dad’s jaw flexes, his instinct to dig in and fight me warring with wanting to make his daughter happy. My mom meets my stare, and I mouth, “Please.” She gives me a soft nod and turns into my father, pressing her hand on his chest to urge him inside.

“They’ve got this,” she says.

Wyatt hangs outside the car, his hands balled into fists at his sides. I think he’s waiting for me to tell him what to do, whichis why I wanted it to be him. Of everyone in my family, he’s the most likely to hear me. To listen. But I need him to hear it all. Even the part he’s not going to like.

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