Page 17 of Drifting Hearts
He made a sound in the back of his throat. Acknowledgement? Agreement? I didn’t know. Were it not for Clayton having called me out earlier on the fact that I almost, maybe, might have cared a little, I’d have offered to take him for a drive-thru celebratory burger. I didn’t let myself think about why it bothered me to take him directly back to my mom’s house. Instead I went home, fired up my computer, and buried myself in numbers.
At least math made sense.
Chapter 9
Clayton
I dreamed of thecast never coming off my arm. Of it never healing. It became this unwieldy concrete appendage, growing heavier over time until dream-me begged the doctors to cut it off.
Of course I relayed this to my therapist, who assured me that it was natural to be scared about the effects the injury would have on me going forward. I also told her about the fact that I felt trapped where I was. Even now that the walking boot afforded me more mobility, it was as though I was under lock and key.
That was normal too, apparently. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. I felt like the least fine person on the planet, but what did I know? I knew that my skin itched ever since I saw that fucking casino. I knew that not only did I have nothing, I also had nothing to lose. Literally. I didn’t even have a dollar to my name.
While a lot of my situation was currently out of my control, there were some things I could do. Grateful that I could wear jeans again, I pulled on a pair and wrestled my way into a shirt. Sleeves were still a challenge, but I managed to get dressed and strap my walking boot back on my foot. The sight of my leg had been astonishing in a horrible way when the cast came off. I’d expected it to look different, but it was white as a ghost and scrawny.
I made my way to the kitchen where Patricia was. That’s where she spent most of her time when she wasn’t taking women to jobinterviews and classes and appointments. Her face brightened when she saw me and she dried her hands on a towel.
“Good morning. Don’t you look nice. Do you want a coffee?”
Patricia rarely waited for an answer before jumping into action and normally I’d let her fuss over me and make me a coffee and fill me with cookies and whatever else she’d baked, but today was different.
“Actually, I don’t want a coffee this morning. I— can I ask for a favor?” I plucked at the hem of my shirt as doubt slammed into me. What was I doing? I shouldn’t be asking her for a single thing.
“What do you need, dear?” Patricia pulled out the chair kitty-corner from me. Her face was etched with concern.
“It’s no big deal. And you can say no. But I just wanted—I wondered—I know Kieran would kill me for even thinking of asking this, but can I borrow a little money? I just need a few dollars for the bus.”
Her face went from concerned, to sad, to relieved, and back to sad again.
“I guess you have been cooped up, haven’t you?” Patricia knit her brows together. “I promised my boys not to loan money. Or give you money. But I didn’t promise not to send you on an errand for me. And, of course, I’d have to compensate you.” She stood and went to her room upstairs. When she returned, she handed me an envelope.
“Can you drop that in the mail for me? There’s a postal box right by the bus stop at the corner. Of course I’ll pay you for your trouble.” She handed me a five dollar bill. “It’s not much, but it’s enough for a day pass for the bus so you can get back home, okay?”
I wasn’t sure why I hesitated to take the money from her, but my blood ran cold like ice.
“I don’t want your sons to get mad at you. I never should have asked.”
“It’s not like you asked for much.”
That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I’d been willing to ask for anything at all. It started with a few dollars. And then I’d want a few more. The sudden fear that I’d be right back where I was when my neighbor found me clawed at my chest.
“I—” Swallowing thickly, I grabbed the envelope, but left the money untouched. “I think today the short walk to the mailbox will be fine.”
I’d like to say that I left the room fast enough that Patricia couldn’t argue with me, but the only thing that moved fast these days was my brain. How quickly I’d convinced myself that asking for a bit of pocket change was fine, only to turn around and hate myself for doing it. I had no right to put her in a bad situation with her sons. And what would happen to me if they insisted I had to leave? There was nowhere else for me to go.
And that was a problem I needed to tackle. I had to get some kind of a job so I could start paying Shane back. I also needed to leave Patricia’s. There were women who needed the space I was taking up. I was sure my therapist would have a lot to say about this, but therapy wasn’t for another three days and by then I’d have found something else to worry about.
Stepping out into the fresh air with the intention of walking down the street had chills going up my spine. The little bit of freedom the walking boot gave me made my head swim. I’d been to one physical therapy appointment a couple of days ago. Kieran, of course, had to drop everything to take me there. He had to wait to bring me back and I was a tired, emotional wreck after. The way Kieran always seemed unaffected by my shifting moods made it easier to be around him. I should hate him for it, but it was too refreshing for me to conjure up even a little disdain. And then there was the fact that I’d been jerking off to thoughts of him and his beautiful scowl.
Fantasizing about Kieran was the literal last thing I needed to be doing but, to be honest, it wasn’t like I had a lot going for me. The illicit daydreams I had about him were a bright spot in my currently not-so-promising existence.
By the time I got down the street where the mailbox sat, my leg throbbed. My hands trembled when I pulled the mailbox open and dropped the letter inside. I didn’t want to go back to the house, but the pressure in my chest wasn’t easing up. I found myself frozen in place until a horn blaring snapped me out of my fog.
Looking around, I determined that I wasn’t being honked at. I also spotted a park just down the street. I could probably make it there, find a bench to sit on, and rest for a bit before going back to Patricia’s.
By the time I got to the bench, sweat dripped down my temples. The back of my neck felt clammy with it and I dropped heavily onto the seat. What had I been thinking? Honestly, I probably hadn’t been. But every day I woke up and did the same thing.
Breakfast. Therapy on therapy days. Lunch. A whole lot of nothing. Dinner. More nothing. Sometimes a movie with my housemates, but most often I retreated to my room.
