Page 6 of Would You Rather
Chapter 3
The plot thickens
I don’t know what I expected to find when I push through the doors, but it definitely wasn’t this.
James is sitting in bed, laughing at the TV like nothing happened.
“Are you crazy?” I ask him once I walk inside the cold hospital room.
He glances to the side for a second, spotting me there, and then turns his head back to the TV. “You’re wet.”
I glare at him, approaching where he’s sat up, propped up by about five pillows, no doubt placed there by my mom. “Thanks for stating the obvious.” I grab a towel from his bathroom and dry my hair. “I’m serious,” I tell him, sitting at the edge of the bed. “You could have been hurt.”
He shrugs, and I watch as his jaw clenches. “I just wanted to take a shower. What’s the big deal?”
I let out a sigh, noting how he seems off. “You need help for that, James.” Which is exactly why I hired the live-in nurse since he refused to move in with me or my mom. I hate seeing him like this. He was always the one who pushed me to do stuff. He would dare me to climb trees when I was too scared to do so, or he would sneak into my room late at night, knowing I was too chicken shit to go to his. He was the wild one in ourfriendship, and now he’s in the hospital without the feeling of his legs.
It fucking kills me.
“I don’t want help,” he says, his tone growing agitated. “I can do it myself.”
“No, you can’t.” I shake my head. “I thought you were doing better.”
“I am,” he says with a shrug.
My eyes narrow. “This isn’t doing better. You were supposed to talk this shit out with someone. The hero mentality, or whatever the fuck this is, isn’t helping you. You went through some rough shit, and it’s changed your life, but you need to learn how to deal with it.”
“I told you I’m fine,” he snaps. “I don’t want to talk to a therapist. What the fuck am I supposed to talk about?” he asks, his shoulders slumping. “How I’m a fucking orphan? How, after I finally started healing after my dad died, I lost my mom, too? How the same car crash that killed her took away my ability to do shit like a normal fucking human?” He shakes his head, letting out a scoff. “Fuck that.”
My chest burns with every word he says, and I squeeze my eyes closed. We both lost our dads at a young age, and while we both had our mothers growing up, and I had my sister, I still have them. James doesn’t have his mom anymore. But he has us. He will always have us.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him. “You are normal, and you’re going to walk again, James.” He injured his spinal cord in the accident, and while the possibility of him being able to walk again isn’t crazy high, it isn’t impossible either.
He lets out a scoff, not believing a word I’m saying. “You guys should just leave me. I’m a fucking burden.”
I twist to face him. “No, you’re not.” His head shakes, and the pain in my chest intensifies. How could he ever think that? “You’re our family, and we show up for family. You aren’t getting rid of us, no matter how hard you try.”
His injury isn’t final. With rehabilitation and physical therapy, he could walk again, and I’m holding onto that grain of hope so fucking hard.
He blinks and swallows harshly. I can’t even begin to understand what he’s going through and how he’s feeling, but fuck, the least I can do is let him know we’re not going anywhere. We’re here for him. Always.
“Jeez,” he says, letting out a strained laugh before he turns to face the tv again. “No need to cry.”
My shoulders drop, and I breathe out a laugh. James always manages to deflect from the hard stuff with jokes, wanting everything to be shits and giggles all the time. “You’re an asshole.” I bump my shoulder against his. “You’re my best friend, and I’m worried about you.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Also, I’m not crying.”
He squints at me. “I swear I saw a tear.”
I let out a laugh, loving how easy it is with him. This guy is more my brother than my best friend. “Nah. You wish.” He laughs, too, and I glance back at him. “You sure you’re alright?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m fine. I have like ten nurses drooling over me all the time. Not to mention your mother.”
I groan, remembering how my mom raced here. She gets really worried about him, and I hate seeing her like that. “Where is she?” I ask him.
“Probably down at the cafeteria.” He shrugs. “She mentioned something about soup.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. My mom’s way of expressing her love revolves around food. If something’s wrong, she cooks. If we’re feeling sad, she feeds us, and even when we’re happy, she celebrates with food.
“I could have been here sooner if it wasn’t for that girl,” I mumble to myself.
