Page 56 of His Last Shot
No! I am not going to let this get the best of me!
I pull down my visor and wipe away the tears streaming from my cheeks. Droplets of beer fall from my soaked hair onto my jeans.
There is no way my RA is going to keep me from this date with Johnny. I am going to find a way to go home, wash this beer off my body and hair, and get ready for what is going to be the best time of my life.
I start my car, pull it out onto the street, and hit the gas. Determination coursing through my veins.
I got this.
“I totally don’t got this,” I say to absolutely no one as warm water cascades down my naked body, masking the tears that are already there.
Because of my bone spurs, no matter how many times I try to lift my arms to my head, my elbows lock, and pain shoots into the joint. I even attempted to bend over to see if that position would be easier. It wasn’t. So now, I’ve been standing here for so long that the shower is running cold.
The coolness of the water is giving me the shivers, and without finishing a simple task like washing my hair, I know I need to leave this bathroom and cancel my date.
With slow, robotic motions, I grab the nozzle and turn it, leaving me even colder than I was before. Before getting out, I run my hands through my wet hair, which still reeks of beer. Now, I’m stuck waiting for my brother to come home and help me. The frustrating drip, drip, drip of the water only amplifies the headache forming behind my eyes.
Reaching for my towel, I dry off my body the best way I can, drudge down the hall to my room, and slip on some comfortable clothes. Shorts and a baggy zip-up hoodie are my only choice since I can’t lift my arms over my head. Shivering, I yank on my warmest, fluffiest socks.
I’m beyond crying at this point. The tears have dried on my cheeks as I fish my phone out of my purse and settle on the couch. My favorite fuzzy blanket rests beside me, so I yank it over my exposed legs.
The time on my phone catches my eye before I open my messages, the digital glow momentarily blinding as I inhale deeply, resting my head back on the couch.
Crap. He’s probably already on his way here.
I type anyway.
Me: Are you on your way?
Johnny: Of course. Driving cow. Can’t wait to glee you.
Johnny: Driving now. See you.
Johnny: Stupid talk to text.
I let out an amused chuckle. Ugh! He’s making this even harder. Time to rip off the band-aid.
Me: I’m so sorry, but I have to cancel.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then reappear again.
Johnny: Are you ok?
Even though it will sound like a lie and beyond ridiculous, I decide to be honest and tell him the truth.
Me: I have to wash my hair later.
There’s nothing for a few more minutes. Restless, I wait, my leg franticly bouncing against the blanket.
Johnny: I had to pull over. Are you serious?
Me: Yes. Please go home. I can’t do this.
Suddenly, my phone lights up in my hand. He’s calling. I’m sure he wants answers. Answers that I can’t give him. Because now, after what just happened in the shower, there is no way I can tell him about my RA. I mean, come on, what kind of woman can’t even wash her own hair?
A weak one, that’s who.
I feel so helpless, like a child that needs her mother. Not a strong grown woman that this amazing man deserves.
