It’s then that I notice her red, lacy bra hanging off the foot of the bed. I check out her chest. Oh yeah, she’s braless. Her nipples are extra nipple-y.
I look down, and then back up, and back down until she notices her bra.
She snatches it from the end of the bed, hugging it to her chest. “I need to use the bathroom first!” She zips across the room and slams the door behind her. Which alerts me to the fact that I need to relieve myself. And getting there isn’t going to be easy with all the shit I’m hooked up to.
“Is she okay?” my dad asks.
“Yeah. I mean, it shook her up, but she’s managing okay.” At least I think she is.
“Are you okay?”
“I hurt, but that’s to be expected.” I’m downplaying it. I have to; otherwise my mom will freak out. “Did you come straight from the airport?”
My mother nods. “We would’ve been here sooner if we could have.” She adjusts my pillow and rearranges the sheets.
Her hair’s a mess. Her face is blotchy. I’m sure she’s been panicking since she saw me go down on the ice. They always watch my games, and it’s usually a pleasant evening in front of the TV. I’ve scared a lot of people.
“I’m going to be fine, Mom.”
She’s about to dispute that when Violet bursts out of the bathroom, no longer braless. “Okay, Daisy, let’s go get some snacks. Alex, you must be starving.”
I’m too hopped up on drugs to think about food, but Violet needs to take care of me, or stay busy, so I tell her whatever she gets me will be good. She links arms with my mom and pats her hand as they leave the room.
My dad waits until they’re gone before he starts with his questions. “Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Not yet, but I’m okay, Dad.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Have you seen your face?”
“It can’t be too much worse than when Buck broke my nose,” I joke.
When he stands there, stoic, I know maybe it really is that bad.
“I need to take a leak.”
He taps the rail. “You want a bedpan or the bathroom?”
“I’m not pissing in a pan.”
“Bathroom it is.” He drops the rail that keeps me from falling off the bed—not that I could since I haven’t moved in hours—and uses the controls to get me into a mostly sitting position.
I groan as I ease my legs over the edge. I’ve got bruises all up my shins. There are other ones on my arms, so dark they’re almost black. Every damn muscle in my body aches. My head throbs, and my vision blurs.
“You want me to get a chair?”
“I can walk.”
“You sure about that, son?”
“I need to walk.”
My dad sighs. He’s used to my stubbornness. “Let’s give it a whirl, then.” He moves my IV stand over so I have something to hold.
I grab it and take a deep breath before I push up. It hurts like a motherfucker. There’s no limit to the discomfort: my legs, my shoulder, my face, my ribs. Pain radiates out until all I can do is breathe around the white spots in my vision and the sharp stabbing ache that makes it impossible to move.
“Alex?” My dad puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Give me a second.”
“I can get you a chair.”
“I’m just stiff. I’ve been lying down for hours.” I shuffle forward, and my stomach rolls. I’ve taken hits before. I’ve had some bruises and bumps, stitches, a couple of previous concussions—but they were nothing like this—and I’ve never broken anything, let alone multiple anythings.
I hold the IV tighter and take a few more cautious steps. Not having the use of one arm makes everything harder. My balance is off, and the aches are worse than I expected.
I grit my teeth and keep going. Ten feet seems like ten kilometers. My dad keeps his hand close to my elbow. Though if I drop, he’s not going to be able to do a damn thing to stop me. Sweat beads my forehead and drips down my back. A trip to the bathroom has never been this difficult. I finally make it to the toilet and drop onto the seat, breathing hard.
“I’ll give you some privacy and bring a chair for the trip back,” my dad says.
I don’t argue.
He closes the door, and I let my chin fall. Even that small movement causes my head to swim. I’m freaked out. I’ve never been injured this badly. I relieve myself, but I don’t think I have the energy left to get up and wash my hands. All I want to do is lie down and close my eyes.
A knock at the door reminds me I’m still sitting on the can. “Gimme a minute.”
“Do you need any help in there?”
It’s Violet. Fuck. “I’m good.”
After a pause she says, “Okay. Your dad has a chair out here, so when you’re ready I can bring it in for you.”
I definitely don’t want her to see me like this. “You can send my dad in with it.”
“O-okay.”
Muffled conversation filters through the fake-wood panel before it opens. My dad backs into the bathroom with the chair. Violet’s holding the door for him, so she ends up seeing me anyway, sitting like an asshole on the fucking toilet because getting up is too difficult. She drops her eyes and turns away, her fingers going to her mouth. Then the door closes, and it’s just me and my dad.
He’s usually an easygoing guy—mellow, doesn’t interfere much with my life and my choices—but today he seems far less passive than usual. He’s frowning, hovering. There are very few things I hate more than appearing weak, mentally or physically. Right now I feel both.