𝚃𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟿𝚝𝚑
Griffin POV
My mom has always been terrible at hiding her emotions.
There was this family Christmas we went to six years ago, where we roadtripped over to Utah to see my dads parents for the weekend. Mom wasn't very happy to be going over there in the first place, because if someone thinks that my dad is bad, then they definitely haven't met his parents.
She tried her hardest to paste on a smile and get through the holiday until my grandpa made a joke about all of the weight she had lost recently. I might've only been twelve years old but I knew that mom was having a tough time holding onto a healthy weight. It was always a sensitive topic that Roselyn and I stayed out of.
Mom, the rockstar of avoiding conflict, faked a laugh while dad chided our grandpa. She tried telling dad that it was okay, even while her face screamed 'get me out of here'. We haven't seen that side of the family much since.
Her mannerisms always give her true feelings away.
That's why I know she's royally pissed off as she helps me, drags me, towards the hospital doors.
Dad and I faced off again last night, so I've been avoiding him like the plague all morning. He was supposed to bring me to this appointment this afternoon, but the thought of being in the same car with him for more than thirty seconds makes me want to drink bleach.
I practically begged mom to drop me off on the way to her hair appointment, instead. It's the only way that this would work, especially because Roselyn and Forrest are gone for the day and I'd be damned asking for Parker's help. Thankfully she agreed and said that that would be fine.
That was before she realized all of her shirts were dirty, I couldn't find any of my sandals, her car needed gas, and now I can't move any faster than a practiced limp.
She's not mentioning the fact that she's ten minutes late to her appointment, however I know she's worried because her jaw is tight and she keeps lifting her wrist to look at her Apple Watch.
What's worse is that I maybe could've used the crutches to bring my own sorry ass into the hospital, except I can't use the fucking things. I just can't.
"Mom, you need to slow down," I say between gritted teeth. My casted leg lands a little too heavily on the sidewalk again and I grimace at the shockwave of pain that flares through my knee.
"We're already late, Griffin! Almost there. You're doing fine," she tries to coax me as she continues to drag me along. Her fingernails dig deeper into my arm.
I bite my tongue to refrain from asking how fucking fine should feel. Her persistence works and we make it into the lobby in record time.
Ira, the nurse that's been overseeing my case and rehabilitation for the past month, is already standing at the front counter. Her brown arms are resting on the stone as she talks with the secretary. When the sliding doors whoosh open, she turns her head to see who's coming in. Her eyes land on me and she immediately straightens, hurrying over to help.
"Good timing!" She exclaims and takes the crutches that I've been dragging along the sidewalk the entire time. "I was about to have Morgan call you guys."
"Sorry, it's been a busy afternoon," mom apologizes and lets go of me the second that Ira steps in to take my arm. All of these hands on me makes my blood boil. "As much as I'd love to stay and chat, I'm running really late for another appointment. Griffin, I'll see you later!"
I don't get a chance to say goodbye. Mom quite literally runs out of the lobby to make it back to her car.
All of this chaos is making my head spin. My leg is throbbing again. The incision itches. I'm pissed off and tired and I didn't get to eat lunch. My stomach growls. Air isn't hitting my lungs the right way. Something stuck in my shirt is scratching my neck. I need to fucking scream or shoot somebody or light something on fire.
"Do you not like the crutches?" Ira asks and slowly begins to shuffle her feet towards the elevator. Her pace is the best thing that's happened to me all day long.
"Fuck no. I can't keep my weight between them and I'm not good at walking with them, even though I practice every day. This cast is so fucking heavy that when I try lifting my body up it's like the crutches slide out from under my arms. Plus I gave myself a goddamn rash under my armpits," I gripe. I don't feel guilty about leaning the majority of my body weight on her supportive arm. I'm so fucking tired.
Ira hums. She doesn't laugh or smirk or make light of my situation. We both pause at the elevator and she clicks the button. The doors open immediately and she helps me in, clicking the down button instead of the up.
I scowl at the change in routine. "Where are we going?"
"PT. Physical therapy. There's a big room downstairs to help patients with rehab. I want to see how you use the crutches before making any changes, only because they keep the most weight off of your knee."
"Not in this case. I have slipped so many times that it's a miracle I haven't busted the screws loose," I grumble and straighten up when the elevator comes to a stop.
Ira chuckles and regains a hold on my arm. We step out together. "Thankfully, as long as you don't get in any more major accidents, you should be past the point of busting anything loose. Your body should have welded back together by now. The biggest issue is going to be getting through these final stages of healing."
"I wish I had a time machine, then," I reply and keep my eyes trained on the hallway in front of us.
"You and me both," Ira agrees with a small laugh.
There are big glass windows on both walls of the hallway we're going down, overlooking the ocean bay on one side and the courtyard of the hospital on the other. Patients and their nurses are milling around outside, but I ignore them as Ira brings me to a wooden door a few yards down.
I glance out the window that oversees the courtyard and take note of the tinted glass room that takes up the majority of the yard space. It's a shot in the dark, but I'm assuming that this is the PT room. With a view, presumably.
Ira quickly scans her ID and the locked box turns green. The mechanics inside of the door clunk loudly. She hauls the door open for me and we both go in.
I squint against the sunlight that's seeping in from all of the floor-to-ceiling windows. My guess is correct. It's quiet in here right now, with just Ira and I occupying the space, but there's plenty of room for more patients. There's walls of treadmills, benches, unweighting walkers, parallel bars, steppers, cross trainers, pulleys, and more assortments of insanely expensive equipment.
"Jesus, you guys have all of this equipment in here but no vending machine?" I ask with a frown.
"Sorry, but no. Let's get through this first, then we can get you a snack from the cafeteria before taking the elevator up to change your bandages." Ira guides me over to a section of rubber mats and pauses as she hands the crutches back over to me. "Okay, try using these like you normally would."
"This is stupid," I proclaim and snatch the crutches out of her hands.
Wiggling the padded bars underneath my arms, I grab the handgrips I lean forward, setting the foot of the crutches ahead of me. I begin to slowly step forward but my weight wobbles dangerously, especially as I try to shift my cast forward. Ira bounces forward to catch me, though I'm able to finish the step with my good leg.
The effort makes my heart pound. I give Ira a cold glare. "See? What am I doing wrong, exactly, huh?"
She purses her lips and backs up, setting her hands on her hips. "Nothing that I can see. Try again."
I hiss out air between my teeth. "For the love of..."
Unfortunately, I know better then to tell a nurse no, so I try again. The same thing happens again. And again.
Finally, Ira takes the hint and waves her hand. "Okay, hang on. Let's have you try this."
I push my weight onto one of the crutches to keep from falling over and watch her coldly as she goes over to the far wall. She digs around the assortment of equipment for a moment, then comes up successfully with a cane.
The cane looks like something a one-hundred year old dementia patient would use. I immediately turn up my nose. "A fucking cane? What am I, a grandpa?"
"No, you're an eighteen year old boy that doesn't handle crutches well. This is your next option. I know that this offset handle isn't fashionable, but it distributes weight better and will take the strain off of your wrist as you heal. Once the cast comes off, you can upgrade to something with a more handsome design. You'll use it like this."
Ira mimics keeping her left leg an inch off of the ground, holding the cane in her right hand. She steps off with her right leg, then swings the cane forward simultaneously with the left leg. Every time the cane hits the floor, she presses all of her weight into it. She goes slow at first, explaining what she's doing and how, then takes off at a much more considerable speed.
When she reaches the other side of the wall, she walks back normally to me and holds it out. "Now, you try."
I'm exhausted by watching her. I want to go home. Actually, I want to hibernate and not wake up for another thirty years. The thought of embarrassing myself with this stupid thing, too, is enough to make a multitude of swear words build on my tongue.
Instead, I snatch it away and let the crutches fall to the floor with a clatter. Ira purses her lips and I can tell that she's one second away from scolding me for my pissy behavior, until the door clunks open. A different male nurse wheels his patient into the room.
My eye twitches.
Great, an audience.
Clenching my jaw, I fumble the handle of the cane in my right hand and start off.
"Easy, Griffin. That's too fast. Watch your weight distribution," Ira says.
"I-fucking-know," I practically spit and slow down the pace. I keep walking with it. My cast bumps the ground. Pain shoots through my knee.
"Swing it with the bad leg. Remember the cadence," she reminds me gently and trails after my path of movement.
I can feel the blood racing through my veins. I don't answer her this time.
She takes my silence as a reply and notes, "There. Okay, this looks better. I'd get used to this one because this will likely be your new normal."
My new normal.
How could I fuck up so badly that I went from the best runningback in California to getting hounded by a goddamn nurse with a metal knee welded into my bones? This is it? This is my life now?
"Slow down, Griffin. Seriously. Watch your hand placement otherwise you'll screw up your wrist next." Ira shadows me and slips next to my side, resting her hand on my arm to get my attention.
I bubble over. I can't help it.
Overstimulation makes me see red.
Her hand touching my skin is too much. It's all too much.
I whip around faster than a viper and punch Ira across the face.
**
Well, Griffin really did it this time!
I'm happy to say that after a lot of fluctuating paces throughout the book so far, things will be picking from here on out... as long as Griffin doesn't find himself in jail.
Only time will tell!!