1
Jack
I’d never been so damnmiserable in my own skin.
My mother said I was the world’s worst patient every time I got sick, and she was spot-fucking-on. She’d never had to worry about me faking sickness or injury to get out of going to school. Even if I’d had the inclination, the threat of staring at the four walls of my room for an entire day was enough to get me off my ass and moving. The only time I stayed home was when I absolutely had to. Only problem was now I couldn’t move without blinding pain. And it bugged the living shit out of me.
I steadied myself on crutches as I entered the waiting room. Even now, using crutches was pushing it as I didn’t have the strength to hold myself up yet. My quivering arms and the beads of sweat on my forehead irritated me with every painful step. I should’ve been in a wheelchair, but I hated that damn thing. I could never work the wheels right and ended up ricocheting off walls and anyone unfortunate enough to be within a ten-foot radius. I was here to learn how to walk again, so I figured I might as well start now.
“Easy, Jack,” my mother warned from behind me. “No need to rush and get hurt.”
I sank my teeth into my bottom lip to cover an audible hiss. God forbid my family stopped hovering for a single second. I really wasn’t this big of an asshole; at least, not usually. I loved my parents and my little sister, but ever since my injury and surgery, I hadn’t had a second alone. And I needed help doing just about everything. Nothing was more shaming than having your own mother, who was half your size, hold you up so you could take a piss.
Not so long ago, I was on top of the world. I was a firefighter, which had been my dream job since I was a kid, and I had a beautiful girlfriend who adored me. I was finally out of the probie stage and riding the rig. The challenge, the adrenaline, the falling back on my pillow each night knowing that because of me people were safe and sound—I mattered in this world and was right where I was supposed to be. However, a little over a month ago, on an otherwise boring night in May, I was in the worst place at the worst possible time.
An old tenement went up in flames. The building was so rotted, how it had managed to stand for sixty-some-odd years was astounding. A handful of squatters shadowed the windows as we pulled up, so we charged in to clear them out before the building collapsed. I rushed in, believing the smoke and flames billowing from every crevice were what I had to worry about, not the second story floor giving way beneath me. The ceiling beneath had melted, sending a few of us through it as if it was a trap door. The fall knocked me unconscious, and when I awoke, I was lying in a hospital bed, pins in my elevated leg thanks to a broken tibia bone, dislocated knee, and a collection of painful muscle lacerations. The painkillers filtering through my veins did little to quell the agony. I was miserable in both body and spirit.
“Hi,” I grumbled as I inched toward the desk. “Jack Taylor. I’m here to check in.”
Like it was a goddamn hotel.
“Oh, sure,” the young woman behind the counter chirped. She didn’t look much older than my teenage sister. My body was sore, rigid, and agitated. I couldn’t even force a smile and returned any kindness with a sneer as of late. Underneath it all, I felt terrible, but on the surface, I was infuriated by my situation and at my leg that didn’t work anymore. This was the toughest physical therapy facility in the state and my only chance to return to work.
Chance, that was—not certainty. I’d always wanted to be a firefighter, so that’s what I’d become. I’d never had a Plan B or imagined taking a different path, and the thought of having to find one made me want to spit nails across the sign-in clipboard on the counter.
“Give us one moment, and we’ll show you to your room.” Her mouth stretched into a smile, and I nodded in response. My family had to take my bullshit, but these people didn’t. Somehow, I needed to curb the bad attitude in public.
“Jack,” my sister, PJ, called from behind me. “Why don’t you sit until they come—”
“Because,” I spat out, “by the time I get myself in one of those chairs, I’ll have to get back up, again. Just doing that will fucking exhaust me for the rest of the day.”
She huffed behind me, and I swallowed the twinge of guilt. If I wasn’t hurt, my sister wouldn’t stand for my pissy attitude. That was almost as bad as being coddled. Everyone tiptoed on eggshells around me, their frustration with me written all over their faces but their pity prevented them from ever voicing it. The strained dynamic compounded the uselessness I felt with every angry breath I took.
“Easy,” my dad growled. “Your sister was only trying to help.”
I swiveled my head to view the disapproval of his ticking jaw. He was the most level-headed, patient man I’d ever known, but I guessed I was—finally—wearing him thin. Me leaving the house for a while would be good for all of us. This place promised the most intensive rehabilitation in the state, and if I had the smallest prayer of getting back on that truck, this was the only place to be.
“Here you go, Mr. Taylor.” The nurse, or whoever she was, stepped away from the desk and strode to a wheelchair in the corner, gripping the handles and rolling it over to me. “Your room is all the way at the end of the hall; the therapists will tire you out tomorrow, believe me.” She chuckled, causing my blood to roar as it came to a boil. “I can see you want to get started right away, but save your energy.”
From the corner of my eye, I glanced at Dad’s raised brow, his silent command to reel it the hell in and get in the chair. As with everything he’d asked me to do since I was a kid, I complied. I set the crutches along the edge of the desk and hopped in, feeling the eyes of the three most important people in my life burn into my back. Along with the hovering, their worry was palpable, and though they meant well, and it came from love, it was stifling as fuck.
The trip to my room was silent, my dad carrying my bag and my mother and sister following us. Once the nurse wheeled me over the threshold, she parked me on a slant next to the wall.
“We’ll be in later with your schedule for tomorrow, and I’ll go grab your crutches. Dinner trays should be coming soon, and your family can stay another couple of hours if they’d like. Ring the nurses’ bell if you need anything.” She gave me a warm smile before strolling out of my room.
“This place is really nice.” PJ sauntered over to the window. “Maybe they can take you outside or something tomorrow—”
“I won’t have time,” I snapped back. “The doctor told me I’m going to be in hard-core PT all day just to learn to walk again. I couldn’t give a shit about the rolling hills, anyway.”
Her short legs marched over to me, her mouth twisted in a sneer. “I was just trying to bring out the positive, Jack. You don’t have to keep biting my damn head off.”
“I’ll put these in the middle drawers, for now,” Mom cut off my sister as she regarded me with tentative eyes. “That way you don’t have to bend or reach.”
I blew out an annoyed gust of air. “I know I can’t walk or move around that well, Mom. You didn’t have to explain.”
“Oh my God! Enough, Jack!” PJ’s squeaky yell made us all jump. She strutted back up to my wheelchair, nostrils flaring as her angry gaze zeroed in on me. “I hate seeing you like this. We all do. But we’ve suffered right along with you.” Her voice cracked before she bit her lip. “So stop being such an asshole!”
I spied the glossy sheen of my mother’s eyes during my sister’s rant, and I wished I could take back the words. My tone and shitty disposition were eating away at her. We had always been close; my tiny mother had been my protector until I was six years old and Dad had come into our lives. She tried like hell to hide it, but it killed her to see me like this—hurt and broken in every way. My gaze dropped from hers. The shame constricting my chest prevented me from lifting my head.
