“No, not yet.”
“Give me Orchid’s number. I’ll text her.”
Phoenix shook his head. “There’s no point.”
“What do you mean? She’d want to know.”
“You don’t know her. Give me some time to get better first. If you tell her, she’d be on the next flight, even if she had to blackmail a nun for the last seat.”
Caleb chuckled. “That sounds like her. But didn’t you text that you guys are a thing?”
“It was one night. It was nothing. It’s over.”
Caleb scratched his chin. “But you texted that like two weeks ago. How could it be over already?”
“I’ve told you guys, I just don’t want anyone here. Not Dex, not our cousins, no one.”
“Why not?” Caleb persisted.
“I’m in no shape to see anyone. My mind’s all fuzzy and my moods are all over the place.”
“She might be understanding about that. Like Sascha is.”
Phoenix allowed a thought of Orchid. Beautiful, sensitive Orchid was as skittish as a kitten over trauma.
“Believe me, there’s no one to call.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.” And yet, how sure was he, really?
CHAPTER 14
MY DOORBELL
Phoenix
“Christ, Mom, just tell him no,” Phoenix said.
“It might make you feel better,” Mom said, adjusting feather and foam pillows behind his back with experienced practice.
“Nothing is going to make me feel better,” he said.
“Besides, Dex and his wife Fiona are on their way,” she continued, choosing to ignore his wishes. Gliding over to the lone window, she raised the blinds. Like stupid sunshine could make an atom of difference in his ruined life.
“Aw, shit. Today?” he asked.
“Yes, any minute now,” she said, glancing at her watch as if it magically tracked Dex’s whereabouts.
He was pissed, at her, at Dex, at himself, at his whole awful situation. He grabbed the arm of his wheelchair, yanking it right up next to the bed. Mom hurried over, fear of him spilling onto the floor evident in the creased lines of her face. She put her arms around him to help with the transfer to the chair, making his gut clench over his predicament.
He pushed the rim of the chair forward, the action giving him the small satisfaction of translating energy into motion.
“I don’t want to see anyone,” he said, the refrain clearly not landing with his mother. He wheeled towards the bathroom. Mom, one step ahead of him, opened the door before he could wrestle with it.
Sledgehammer that mirror already.
He balanced his toothbrush onto the porcelain surface and squeezed a smear of toothpaste. His brain tried to find a crescent of hope to save him from impending self-pity. Running a razor over his cheeks, dragging a wet comb through his wavy mass of overlong hair, none of that changed the haggard expression that stared back at him.
