Page 72 of Wild for You
Maybe this is how it’s meant to be? Who was I kidding when I thought my life could be any different? At least Sandrawantsme … I don’t know if I can say the same for Jack.
I type out a response to his text.
Gwen: Of course, this changes things. I need some time to figure out what I want.
I tuck the phone into my bra—old habits die hard—and make my way back to my friends to tell them my news.
One thing’s for certain, no matter what changes in my life, I can always count on Sandra to keep me grounded. Maybe this is the stability I need to navigate this new season of change.
I’m not completely convinced, but at least it’s a start.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR
Jack
Hobblingthrough the doorway of our two-bedroom bungalow on the beach, I stub my good toe on the entryway. “Shit,” I hiss as I try to cradle my leg while keeping balance on the devil-sticks digging a hole in my armpit. “Who the fuck invented these things?” I yell as Sam pushes past me, causing me to lose my balance and fall headfirst into the doorframe.
“Oops, I didn’t see you there,” he calls over his shoulder as he drags his suitcase and my small tote bag into his rental property, where we’ll stay for the next three weeks.
I’m not going to lie, this place is much better than recovering in that torture chamber of a hospital, but I can’t help but wish Gwen was here with me instead of Sam.
I narrow my eyes and shove the crutches back under my armpits, making a beeline for revenge. By the time I finally reach him—running through a house on crutches while adapting to your missing appendage is no easy feat—I’m exhausted, and I don’t even have the energy to retaliate. I’ll just have to wait until he least expects it. Play smarter, not harder. I’m pretty sure that’s what the saying means.
Terracotta tiles line the floor, and one wall of the living room wall is made up of a giant sliding glass door that overlooks the ocean. It’s a hell of an upgrade from the hospital, where I’ve spent the last week being poked and prodded every time I turned around. I still have this stupid IV line administering antibiotics around the clock, but at least now I’ve got a better view.
I look over and see Sam ruffling through the kitchen. Then I hear the familiar hiss of a beer bottle clinking open, and like Pavlov’s dog, my mouth is salivating uncontrollably.
“When did you have time to get beer?” I make my way into the kitchen to grab my own.
Sam may be one of my very best friends, but we’ve got a bit of a love/hate relationship, especially when Benjamin’s not here to even out the group.
Sam plops down on the tan leather sofa and props his feet—yes, both feet. That’s something I now notice about people—on the coffee table before taking a long pull of his beer.
“I had a grocery service delivery this morning when you were filling out your release papers.”
I nod my head in approval, not that he can see me. He’s too busy kicking back and enjoying his right leg to notice me struggle to balance my body weight while bending to retrieve my beer.
Not much of a caretaker, that one. I think Sam could give nurse Tatiana a run for her money on worst bedside manner.
“Don’t worry about me.” I wince as I knock my stump against the counter before making my way to the living room with a cold beer in hand. “I’ve got this. I don’t need any assistance.”
Sam laughs. “Oh, good. I didn’t want to emasculate you. I know how important it is for you to have your independence.” He takes another pull of his beer and flicks the TV on, finding the local soccer channel.
I want to take a swing at him with my crutch, and for a moment, I actually try to calculate if I could hit him from where I’m sitting, but I decide against it. I have to face the facts; I’m weaker than him in my current condition. It’s a hard pill to swallow.
I direct my attention to the TV, and a sense of calm floods my chest. Soccer, the universal language. It doesn’t matter that my favorite teams aren’t playing or that the commentators are speaking Spanish. The game speaks for itself.
I let the cold beer flow down my throat, savoring the first sips of something so delicious, and let myself get lost in the game. I thought I’d never get to indulge in either ever again.
Sam may be a total tool at times—not that I don’t deserve it. I mean, I think I’ll be paying for that hot cup of coffee to the face for a while to come, but he knows me, and he knows this is exactly what I need.
I take another sip of my beer and glance at the white bandage covering most of my thigh. I’ll never be able to play my favorite game in the world again. The realization hits me like a boulder to the chest, and all I can do is drink and mourn my past life.
I don’t know what happens next or even what’s possible for me, but nothing could’ve prepared me for this outcome. I was okay with dying at sea, being swallowed up by the ocean. I was okay with spending the rest of my numbered days dying of an infection on the island with Gwen. So, why is this so difficult to deal with?
My emotions have been all over the place as I’ve tried to grapple with the new way of life, but I can’t seem to get a handle on my new identity.
What does this mean for my career? Can Wombat Willy still give guided tours and travel the world without a leg? Will Gwen still want me when she finds out I’m damaged goods?
