No, I wouldn’t be here long.
Chapter5
Korbin
“Good morning, sweetheart. How are you feeling?” My mother leaned down to kiss me on the forehead, still dressed in her nightgown and hairnet. Her slippers pattered across the floor as she went to the counter to pour herself a cup of coffee before joining me at the breakfast nook. She wrapped her small hands around the mug to warm them up.
“Better,” I lied, flashing the best smile I could for her. “I think it’s already getting better.”
The truth was, my leg and knee hurt so goddamn much that I could barely sleep at night, let alone function during the day. I wasn’t about to tell my mother that.
“Can I make you some breakfast?” Nina asked, side-eying my mere mug of coffee. “A strong boy like you needs a good meal, son.”
“Thanks, Ma, but I’m okay. Tate should be here any time to take me in for physical therapy.”
“You tell that young man that I can drive you sometimes too,” Nina said, sipping from her cup. “It doesn’t always have to be him.”
“I’ll tell him, Ma, but I don’t think he minds.” I finished off the coffee in my mug and struggled to my feet, still in the process of getting used to the crutches that seemed to be more hindrance than they were worth. Without them, however, I was useless.
“I think he’s here,” Nina said, standing to peer out the kitchen window. “Give that young man my love. He’s been such a good friend to you.”
“Yeah, sure, thanks, Ma.” I leaned down to kiss her on the cheek before hobbling into the living room to shrug my jacket on—yet another task that so many people take for granted in their day-to-day lives. But not me.
“Hey Gimpy McGee,” Hansen called as I stepped out and hobbled towards the truck. He reached a hand out to steady me and opened the passenger’s door, taking my crutches to lay them down in the back before helping me slide into the seat.
“Are you getting tired of driving my ass around yet?” I asked, watching Hansen as he shut the door behind me and went to the driver’s side to start the engine. “Because Nina says she can take me too, to give you a break.”
“Honestly?” said Hansen. “It gets me out of the house. Paisley doesn’t want me around. She says just looking at me is stressful.”
“Ouch,” I said. “Does she know your face doesn’t get any better?”
“Ha.”
“I try.”
“How are you feeling?” Hansen glanced over at me as he drove, concern etched in his features. Like the worrying mother hen, this dude, as if I needed another.
“Like a million bucks,” I lied, and Hansen’s eyebrows shot up.
“No one believes that, especially not me.”
“I miss work, man.”
“You’ve only been out a week,” he reminded me, and I groaned.
“You said that same thing a couple of days ago,” I seethed. “One day it will be, ‘you’ve only been out a month’, or ‘you’ve only been out a year.’ And then what happens, Hansen? Then I’m out. I’m just out.”
Hansen shook his head, focusing again on the road in front of us. “Who would have thought that Paisley’s hatred for me right now would be preferred?”
“I’m just saying.” Throwing my hands in the air, I adjusted in the seat, having to use both my hands to move my leg into a comfortable position—or more specifically, a position that didn’t make me want to jump off a cliff in pain.
“Look, man, I need you better,” said Hansen. “Because your dumb ass is standing up beside me at our wedding in two months, and I refuse to let you use this as some shitty excuse.”
“Excuse? You think that I don’t want to get better?”
“I think you’re playing the ‘woe is me’ card,” he said with a shrug. “So, you busted up your knee—doing something you had been told not to do, might I add—but your life isn’t over. You’re not joining the photos of our fallen brothers and sisters on the wall in our firehouse. I’m not sending news to your mother and siblings that you were killed in action and they will never, ever see you again.”
“Okay, I get it.”
