Page 19 of This Life and All the Rest
Without another word, Nic turns and leaves the way she came. I don’t know why she’s here, but if she told me to work the wheel, then she’s probably not going to my apartment upstairs. Everyone knows I like to be alone when I create. I’ve only been able to tolerate one person in my space while I throw or sketch, and that person might as well be dead to me.
The thought pisses me off again, and all the tension that I bled out while fighting comes back tenfold.
Capri.
What a mother-fucking joke.
“Thanks for your help,” I say to Casper as I climb out of the ring. “See you later.”
I make my way out of the gym, down the hall, and up the stairs that lead to my apartment, trying my best to keep my gait even. My body wants to limp, but I force myself to take even, balanced strides. It hurts, but it’s a pain that I’m proud of.
I unlock my door and walk into my apartment, taking off my shoes and kicking the door shut behind me. I go to my bedroom and down four more ibuprofen, then pull off my shirt and pants, so I’m standing in just a pair of boxer briefs. I fold the clothes and set them neatly on my made bed.
I turn and look at myself in the full-length mirror on the wall, running my hand down my abs then twisting to see the definition that’s returning to my thighs. I’m finally starting to tone back up.
The tattoos on my chest and arms no longer look misplaced, like someone took my art and put it on someone else’s skin. It’s crazy how quickly muscle deteriorates when you’re forced to be inactive for an extended period of time.
I run my eyes down the long, angry scar on my left thigh, and on instinct, the scar on my left wrist aches. I don’t know what it is about my left side, but it seems to take the bulk of my abuse. The wrist, the leg, the sleeve of tattoos.
The heart.
I scan my face, taking note of the swollen, split lip and bruised cheek, then run my fingers through my hair and remind myself again to get it cut tomorrow. I put on my standard throwing attire—a tattered pair of jeans and an old band tee with the sleeves ripped off—and make my way to my studio.
When James and Hank decided to renovate part of the upper level of the rec center and turn it into an apartment, they chose to put the primary bedroom in a corner of the space with two walls of large windows.
When I moved in, I made the guest bedroom the primary bedroom and turned the primary bedroom into a studio. It’s a little big for what I need it for—a couple work tables, my pottery wheel, and a single desk for sketching—but the natural light is unmatched, and the closet is the perfect storage room.
When I walk in, I don’t even have to flip on the light because the summer sun is shining brightly through the windows. I grab a block of clay from the closet, glancing briefly at the pieces in various stages of completeness lining the shelves along the wall. Some are ready to ship, some are still drying, and some need to be brought downstairs to start the firing process.
It would be convenient to have a kiln of my own in the studio, but for now, I don’t mind using the rec center’s kiln. Besides, the stairs are good for my rehab.
I choose a playlist from my phone, setting it to stream through the Bluetooth speaker. It’s a compilation of indie folk-pop songs, and I choose not to acknowledge why, of all the playlists I’ve made, I selected this one.
I go about setting up my wheel, filling two buckets with water from the attached bathroom and laying out my basic tools, before finally taking a seat on my stool behind it. I stretch my left leg out and back a few times, getting it used to the sitting position, then I slam the clay onto the surface of my wheel and start to throw.
SEVEN
It’s12:30 when I park my car in the hospital visitors’ lot.
I was so caught up with the wheel that I didn’t stop until quarter to noon, so I didn’t have time to shower. I just washed the clay off my arms and changed before rushing here.
My window to see Trent is a small one. Lennon was here this morning and Mom will be here this afternoon. I just want to be able to pop in and check on him. I’ve been reading article after article about heart attack recovery, but none of it really matters until we know more about his case.
I climb out of my car, lock the door, and make the walk up to the ICU on autopilot. It’s only been a few days, but I feel like I’ve been making this trip every day of my life.
When I get to the desk where I’m supposed to sign in, the nurse tells me that I have to wait. Someone else is back there. I want to ask who, but I know already.
I check the clock. Nearly one. I forgot to eat. I’m debating running down to the hospital cafeteria to grab a sandwich when the door lock behind me buzzes, and I turn to watch as it opens and reveals Lennon behind it. She startles when she sees me standing here, but her feet carry her in my direction, and she stops a little more than an arm’s length in front of me.
Her face is red, her eyes swollen. She’s been crying. My heart fucking cracks. This has to be so fucking difficult for her. She already lost her mom, and now this?
“Hey,” I say softly, then nod to the doors behind her. “I was just coming to see him, but I can come back if you need more time.”
She shakes her head, her brows scrunched in the middle.
“No. He’s not in there. They took him for some scans or something.”
“Oh.” I shove my hands in my pockets to keep them under control. “You know how long?”
