With an eye roll, I got up again. Protesting was useless against Nash’s rules, especially when I couldn’t deny the man had a point. So I hopped into the kitchen, grinning when I beat Bean by two seconds. I made myself broad as I washed my hands, my grin only widening when he tapped his foot impatiently. “Wait your turn,” I scolded him.
In reply, he bumped his hip against mine, nearly toppling me over if not for my reflex of holding on to the kitchen counter. “Hey, asshole, watch what you’re doing. I don’t need another injury.”
Bean shrugged. “Better work on your balance, then, flamingo.”
If I’d still had another leg, I would’ve kicked his ass—literally—but alas, I had to settle for a Leroy Jethro Gibbs–style slap against the back of his head.
“If I have to break up another fight between you two, you can eat in your room.”
Nash’s threat was not an empty one, and Bean and I agreed with a wordless look to consider the matter settled.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked after managing to get to my seat again.
“Meatloaf, loaded mashed potatoes, and a green-bean casserole,” Nash said as he took the lids off the pans he’d put on the table. We didn’t do fancy plating since everyone could damn well load up their own plate. “My grandma’s recipe.”
The latter was code fornobody fucking complain—not that we often had reason to. Nash could cook, and his grandmother’s recipes were yummy. Old-fashioned and not exactly healthy by modern standards since they usually contained enough fat to give any doctor a coronary, but who cared when it tasted that good?
When it was my turn, I took an extra portion of the mashed potatoes full of butter and dumped a good sprinkling of grated cheese and bacon on top. I hadn’t found a food yet that didn’t improve with bacon on it. Candy, maybe, but even that was debatable.
“How was rehab today?” Nash asked me when everyone had gotten their food.
“It sucked.”
He arched an eyebrow. “For any specific reason?”
The sigh flew off my lips before I even realized it. “Kent has paired me with this super-annoying surfer dude. Today was the third time we had to train together, and I swear to god, if he makes one more wisecrack, I’ll cut his heart out with a spoon.”
Nash let out a dry chuckle, but Bean looked at me quizzically. “Why a spoon?”
“Because it’s dull, you twit… It’ll hurt more,” Tameron and I said in perfect unison, then high-fived each other.
“What the fuck?” Bean looked from me to Tameron.
“You need to learn your classics, boy,” I told him.
“He grew up without a TV, remember?” Nash reminded me mildly.
Right. I kept forgetting about the ultra-strict upbringing Bean had survived. “It’s a quote fromRobin Hood, Prince of Thieves, a classic from the nineties. Alan Rickman plays the Sheriff of Nottingham, and he’s brilliant.”
Bean’s eyes lit up, and he dug the little notebook out of his back pocket. It came with a mini pen, and he always carried it with him, writing down whatever he wanted to remember. His memory was utter crap after his brain injury, so this was the only way he managed to not forget stuff. “I’ll add it to the list of movies I need to see.”
And now I felt like a total shit for making fun of him. I made a mental note to buy it on iTunes so we could watch itall together—provided it came with subtitles. By the end of the day, Tameron was usually exhausted from using his hearing aids and often wanted to take them out, so subtitles would help him follow the movie more easily.
“Anyway,” Tameron said to me. “Why are you feeling so stabby toward this guy?”
“He’s so…annoying.”
“So you said. Details, please.”
“He’s patronizing, always telling me what to do and how to do my exercises better.”
“Does he have the same type of injury?” Nash asked.
I nodded. “Almost identical, same prosthesis but on his other leg. Except his was caused by an accident. Motorcycle, I think.”
“And he’s in the same stage as you?”
“No, he’s three or so weeks ahead.”
