“Gotta say, I’m not a huge fan of people treating my friend like shit, but did any of your research get into emotional dysregulation?”
“I mean…I know what it is.”
“People often underestimate how bad things can get after something like a mini-stroke. Especially if there were a series of them.”
“You know, I’d read that as a side effect, but I didn’t take it seriously.”
“It’s definitely something to look into. Not that there’s an excuse for being a grumpy asshole, but don’t get discouraged over one bad encounter. Or two, for that matter,” she jokes. “If you’re even still interested in her.”
I sigh. “I don’t like being treated that way either. Maybe I’m just an idiot, but she looks scared and lonely, even though she’s got a whole group of people working for her. Still, she asked for space, and I am totally going to give it to her.”
“She’ll probably appreciate that. Though, I’m the mother of three, so that might be a bit of a projection.”
I laugh, kissing the side of her head. She and Blake often joke about the difficulties of parenthood, but I’ve seen how they are with those girls. They love their family very much and use humor—along with the occasional gummy—to get through the hard parts.
I want a relationship like that.A true partnership where each keeps the other going. Given how our last interaction went, I don’t know why the small voice inside still wishes Mackenzie Nash could be that person for me.
Chapter5
Mac
My physical therapysession was a disaster this morning, and now I’m in a mood. First of all, my therapist, who looks all of twelve, likes to show up at six-thirty in the morning because “you should start your day with a win.”
I sigh from the depths of my soul when she comes at me with that unrelenting positivity.
Having overslept, I tripped on my guitar on the way to opening the door, and she harangued me about it until I cried. Actually, it’s possible she gently pointed out the importance of maintaining a clear pathway, and I burst into tears for no reason at all.
Thankfully, she’s efficient and ignored the outburst, getting down to business and out of my hair by seven.
Mason comes up every other day to drink coffee and spill all the juicy small-town gossip, but I’m relieved to have breakfast on my own this morning.
Yesterday morning, he went on about alpacas and a crazy wedding story for an hour. Don’t tell him, but I secretly love the gossip.
Today, however, not even the stunning view from the front porch or the eye-rollingly good local coffee Kinley left for me can change this mood. I don’t care that I’m in some magical fairy cabin in the woods or that the sunrise and sunset are spectacular. Nor do I give a shit that the decor and open-concept design are surprisingly inviting for a hunting cabin in the foothills of the Rockies.
There’s even enough room to maneuver when I need a walking aid, and the bathroom has a beautiful walk-in shower with sturdy—and suspiciously new—railings. Hell, the entire place has solid wood flooring and the plushest rugs. Even the bed is perfect. Every detail tells me that Kinley is a thoughtful, incredibly generous host.
Bah humbug.
Honestly, the fact that she put this kind of effort into everything sets my teeth on edge.
By the way, those plush rugs are a series of death traps. I ended up on the ground the first night. Thankfully, Kinley wasn’t around because there’s no way Ms. Healthcare 2023 wouldn’t’ve had me back up on that goddamn medevac in a heartbeat. Anyway, I couldn’t hide the bruises from Mason, and he wheedled the truth out of me, then rolled up all the rugs and shoved them under the bed.
I’m sure my gorgeous and interfering hostess won’t mind.
Of course, as I curse my good luck, I drop my toast, butter side down. I make another piece, managing to get it on a small plate this time. My physical therapist said my stress levels were still too high and I should consider taking my coffee—decaf, for fuck’s sake—on the porch. Never mind that I nearly drop everything five times and slosh half my coffee over the rim when I set it down. Thankfully, the toast survives, and I drop into the Adirondack chair.
Breathe in,breathe out.
Honestly, I can’t believe I’m paying good money for someone to tell me how to inhale and exhale. Still, the muscles in my shoulders relax—a little—and I open my eyes.
Damn. This place really is like a postcard.
Okay. So…maybe things are a little better today than yesterday and the day before. Dr. De León says mini-strokes can result in agitation and difficulty controlling one’s temper.
I grab the coffee mug with my good hand and carefully bring it to my lips. Even though I spill a little on my shirt, it’s still damn good coffee. An optimist would, I suppose, say that the ability to feed and water myself is pretty lucky, all things considered.
Eating is still hit-or-miss, so I split the toast in half, making a bit of a mess as I attempt to shove it in my mouth and chew properly. One of the prerequisites for leaving the therapy center early was the ability to feed and clothe myself. Looking down at the mess on my shirt, I’m not sure my attempts at self-care qualify.
