Page 10 of Unloved

Catching my gaze, Clem tilts her head to the door, signaling she’s going to go and get Frankie. That leaves me with both Remy and Samuel in the room, and as much as I love everyone’s round-the-clock support, the need to constantly be attached to my phone to ensure I don’t miss anything is weighing on me.

It’s been twenty-four hours of nothing but doctors and nurses running test after test and me waiting for results. I sat through both a CT and MRI scan to confirm my collarbone break and to determine no other bones or muscles of mine were injured from the tackle, but still no word on my hearing.

Neither the hospital staff, the coaching staff, or Samuel were impressed by my decision to “recklessly” get up and walk without being properly examined. I’d like to say they’ve been working tirelessly, but this isn’t some medical television drama where a plethora of doctors are assigned to me and the wait times are almost non-existent.

No, this is real life, proving once again, it loves kicking you when you’re down.

Feeling defeated, I sink into the pillows propped up behind my back, taking in my surroundings, trying so hard to just let myself breathe.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.

My collarbone throbs, but short of keeping it in this sling and taking painkillers, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m overwhelmingly tired, my mind and body on the verge of complete exhaustion, but I’m too scared to sleep.

The quiet is too much. I can’t hear anything, my anxiety is on high alert, and my mind cannot accept the fact that I can’t hear those small little squeaks and creaks that urge you to wake up when something is going on around you.

I don’t want to think about this being permanent. I don’t want to think that thought into existence, but doing that requires even a sliver of hope. And that is something I don’t have.

The hospital door slowly opens, and my heart begins to beat wildly. My gaze darts to Samuel, who’s staring right at me. Without a single word leaving my mouth, he rises up off his chair and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. His back is to the door and all his attention is on me.

He’s the strength I need.

My gaze shifts back to the door, and I watch as Frankie walks in behind Clem, every step of his filled with trepidation. My traitorous chin quivers at the sight of him.Fuck, how I’ve missed him.

He’s aged some, his sense of style a little more formal than I’m used to. He’s grown into a man, one who has clearly spent time searching for and finding himself.

He raises his hand awkwardly, and it takes a great deal of effort to remind myself I’m mad at him. Forcing myself to lean into my petty feelings, I choose not to wave back. He might be here to help and do damage control, but I have no desire to make it easy on him.

Firm in my decision, I wait him out.

Clem is the first one to break, widening her eyes at me expectantly.

I don’t give an inch.

When my silence becomes too much, I watch him step around Clem and drag his cell out of his pocket.

I anticipate the vibration but choose to open the message at my own slow pace. I pretend not to notice that our last message exchange was almost twelve months ago. What I don’t do is tamp down the onslaught of rage that burns through me at the sight of his message.

I’m so sorry.

My hand moves of its own volition as I pick up my phone with my good arm and launch it at him. Despite the utter shock on his face, he manages to catch it, his mouth wide open, staring at me.

I don’t want his stupid apology. I don’t want his pity visit. There isn’t a single thing I want from him, except for him to stay gone. Because if Frankie is gone, then it means there’s nothing wrong.

But Frankie’s here, with his stupid apology and pity visit. Frankie’s here… and everything is wrong.

4

RHYS

“How are you feeling today?”

As a twenty-seven-year-old addict, I’ve already been through a handful of sponsors. I stare at my newest sponsor, her black braids falling over her shoulder, making her look too young to make this work.

She would be one of many, because they never stick and I never stay sober.

I want to. Well, I think I do, but somehow I always end up right back here, someone asking me how I’m feeling and me feeling all too much.

I want to spill my guts, I want to lay it all out on the table for her, but the shame consumes me. I’m a spoiled brat, who got hooked on pain pills because I wanted to take them for fun.

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