Page 102 of The Pocket Pair

So, she was here. I can’t quite grasp the memories. They feel almost like cobwebs blowing in a strong breeze while I try to gather them in my fist. Lifting the hand on the good side—or, better side, anyway—of my body, I rub my forehead. My face even hurts.

“Are you okay?” Winnie asks, and her tone is gentler now. Very un-Winnie. When I nod slightly, she sighs. “You really did scare me, Chev.”

Her voice is wobbly, and Winnie never wobbles. When she takes my hand, though, that’s when I squint at her.

“Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

“It’s me, you big dork.”

“My real sister wouldn’t hold my hand.” When she tries to pull away, I squeeze, holding on tighter. “Only an imposter. Or maybe you’re Tom Cruise wearing one of those realistic faces like in Mission Impossible.”

Winnie snorts. “You wish I was Tom Cruise.”

“A little bit. But seriously—no need to worry. It was an accident. Not even a hugely serious one.”

Winnie tips her chin toward the bandages on my chest. “The doctor said you got seventy-two stitches. Seems pretty serious to me.”

“Meh. Minor flesh wounds.”

“Chevy, you had a crushed Dr Pepper can embedded in your chest. It’s kind of a big deal.”

“Did they save what was left of the can? I could make a trophy out of it.”

“I’ll ask. But I doubt it. I think it was mostly shrapnel. You’re officially good to go. We’re just waiting on the doctor with official discharge and instructions. Mostly—go easy and try not to rip your stitches or reopen any of the cuts. Watch for infection. Take pain pills as needed. Blah blah blah.”

“Thanks for that very medical explanation,” I say drily.

Winnie’s quiet for a moment, and since I doubt that will last long, I try to focus my thoughts and remember Val’s visit. What did we talk about? Did I do or say something stupid? Most likely. But what?

Thinking of Val makes a very different part of my chest ache. A deeper than my Dr Pepper injury part.

I miss her.

I miss having her in my house, leaving toothpaste in the sink and long, dark hair everywhere. I miss her laugh. The sight of her in my kitchen, whether that’s yawning and messy-haired in the morning or bright-eyed and telling me some story while cooking for me. I miss kissing her in various rooms of the house—because we absolutely did kiss in every single room. And the front and back porches. I’m nothing if not thorough.

Then I think of Charlie, his face with features similar to mine, to my dad’s. I allow that pain to sink in deep, below the mild throb of my injuries. For the first time in a long time or maybe ever, I let it hurt.

The grief over losing my father—not to death, but as my childhood hero. Living years with his lies. Carrying them as though they were mine too, being crushed under the weight of that burden. Forcing myself to shut it all in, to protect Winnie from it. Fearing I will be no better.

That something in me, inherited from him and inside my cells like some kind of virus, would make it impossible for me to commit. Like I would be forced somehow, from my genes, to be unfaithful.

I open my eyes. Man, are those thoughts stupid. I’m stupid.

My dad’s choices aren’t mine. And though I still feel a deep sense of hurt and anger I should probably still work through with a therapist like Winnie and I talked about, a deadweight has lifted from my chest.

I am not him.

Which means I pushed away the one person who means more to me than anyone in the world because of a lie I told myself.

“Idiot,” I mutter.

“You’re the one who’s got a Dr Pepper related injury,” Winnie says. “Don’t call me an idiot.”

“Oh, I definitely meant me. I’m the idiot. Move.”

Winnie hops off the bed. “Are we leaving?”

“I need to see Val.”

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