Page 49 of If You Never Come Back
The doctor nods, consulting my chart. “That just means a bit of bone has been pulled from your wrist when you sprained it. It should heal on its own, but you shouldn’t stress it. That means no typing, no repetitive movements, no writing, playing racquet sports, no lifting, anything like that.”
My head spins as he lists off more activities I can’t do.
“For your ankle, that means no exercise for the next few weeks. And when you walk, use a crutch with your good arm to keep the stress off the injury.”
I can’t speak. Wes seems to read my silence for the panicked gesture that it truly is.
“She’s an artist,” he says. “She stands sometimes when she paints and sketches.”
The doctor shrugs, clearly unmoved by Wes’s explanation. He turns to me. “Sorry, but those are your instructions for recovery. If you want to avoid permanently injuring yourself, you need to take it seriously. You should be fine to ease back into minor activities in three or four weeks.”
He leaves the room while we wait for a nurse to come back with my paperwork. My head spins.
“But…I have so much work to do.”
“I know,” Wes says.
“I was commissioned to do this multi-panel canvas work. I have revisions for a children’s book I’m illustrating. I…I have sketches that need polishing and digital projects that I haven’t even started yet. I’m on deadline.”
When my voice starts to shake, Wes grips me by the shoulders. “Shay.”
I fix my stare on him. Suddenly everything is steady.
“It’ll be okay. You can contact your clients and explain that you’ve had a health emergency and will have to deliver their projects a few weeks late. They’ll understand.”
“Will they?” I practically scoff my response. “I worked so hard for so long trying to get myself to this point—where I’m supporting myself with my art. And now that I’ve just barely made it, I’m about to lose it all.”
If I blow this opportunity, it’s back to soul-sucking office jobs and staying up till the wee hours of the morning completing art projects. No way do I want that again.
“You won’t lose it all. Don’t even think that.” Wes speaks with such authority, I almost believe him. “Your clients want your work. You’re a sought-after artist now, remember? Waiting a few extra weeks won’t make a bit of difference to them, I promise.”
“How can you promise something like that?”
I bite my tongue at my bitter tone. I still can’t stand that he followed me online after he left. It’s such a sneaky thing to do. He could have just called. He could have just texted. He could have just—
My cheeks heat. But he didn’t. And I need to remember that every time my brain goes crazy with all the things I wish Wes could have done.
I swallow, willing the hurt and frustration to stay below the surface where it belongs.
Releasing me, he takes a seat in the stool across from the exam table. A vein I never noticed before bulges in his neck.
“Disobeying doctor’s orders and permanently screwing up your wrist and ankle just because you’re obnoxiously stubborn doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do, does it?”
Tension flashes between us like a bolt of lightning.
“Wes, I just got career-altering news. Can you just let me have a minute to process it all?”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You won’t be doing this alone,” he says. “I’ll be there to help you.”
“How, exactly?”
The huff of breath he lets out is riddled with frustration. I can tell by his frown, by the clench of his jaw, how his hands fall to rest at his waist. I hardly ever saw it when we were together. But now that we’re exes thrust together by a weird set of circumstances, frustration seems to be his default. My stomach churns at the thought that I’m the cause.
I used to make him so happy.
I wipe the thought away, focusing instead on his expression.
“I’m suggesting that I help you in your daily tasks,” he says.
