“Not breakfast,” Charlie says. “I had to pour my own milk on my own cerealevery day.”
It’s a joke that should make me laugh.
Instead, I stare despondently at the back of my eyelids and wish I could simply sleep until it no longer hurts.
Until what no longer hurts, you ask?
Everything.
My heart hurts. My sinuses hurt. My head hurts. My skin hurts. My feet hurt. My legs hurt. My arms and hands and fingers hurt.
Everything hurts.
“This is new,” Lana says, much closer now. “Are you going to actually make it through this, or are you just going to lobster away at the pool?”
I could ask if she’s making a joke about me getting sunburned, or about lobsters mating for life, but I don’t have the energy.
So I simply grunt something.
“Mom’s meds are working better,” Lana says. “She’s being transferred from the hospital to the memory care unit at Shady Acres tonight. It’s finally about to be done.”
I peel my eyelids open to look at her. Time to pretend to be human. “And how are you with that?”
Her shoulders sag. “Sad, but relieved, and then sad, and then depressed, and then relieved, and then guilty, then sad, then relieved, then sad. I should’ve forced her into the memory unit weeks ago, but when you know that she’ll never see her own home again after that decision…it’s just fucking hard.”
I stare at her far longer than I should have to in order to form a coherent thought. “Emotions are terrible bastards.”
“Emotions are what make life worth living.”
I grunt again and close my eyes. “We’ve an easy routine here. Take your time with resting and recuperating before the boys invade your house once more. They’ll be with you full time for a spell again soon enough.”
“You gonna recover well enough to head out to California on schedule?”
“I shall do what must be done.”
“I saw Daphne today.”
I simultaneously tighten every muscle in my body in preparation for hearing an onslaught of my worst traits while bracing my heart against any news that might give me the slightest bit of hope that Bea would consider taking me back.
She left things rather open-ended on Monday afternoon.
I don’t knowis a far cry fromNever speak to me again, you backstabbing twat, but it’s an equally far cry fromI miss you, I forgive you, I want you back.
And with every second that ticks by without a word from her, I fear it means the former rather than the latter.
“She started a protest over the source of the meat at JC Fig last night,” Lana says. “Jake had to close the restaurant because of the number of calls he got demanding to know where he got off participating in the inhumane treatment of animals.”
The news doesn’t make my body loosen.
“He apparently showed up at the burger bus on Monday and told Bea he’d take her back again. She attacked him with ketchup and told him she’ll destroy him and his family if they don’t leave her alone.”
I squeeze my beer can so hard that it crushes in on itself.
There was still a half beer left, so now I’m coated in fizzy, beer-scented liquid.
“And Logan’s apparently harassing her—hanging out near the bus every other day to chase away her customers—so Daphne put in a complaint to the police chief.”
If I could crush my beer can again, I would.
