This may be the thing that finally sends me over the edge.
It’s an effort to remain standing, and I can’t force my limbs to move or my vocal cords to work.
“Uh, miss?” His brows knit together in confusion.
“I’ll take those.” Mom appears, like an angel sent from heaven, smiling as she takes the bouquet, box, and the balloon with the giant twenty-one written on it from the dark-haired guy. “Thanks so much.”
Nana materializes in the hallway, and she quietly takes the flowers and the balloon and disappears into the living room.
“I have more,” he says, racing back to his van. He returns a few minutes later with one large box and two smaller ones.
Kill me now.
Please.
Mom ushers me to one side so the guy can prop the boxes against the wall in the hall.
He offers me an unsure smile as he stands awkwardly in the doorway. “Happy birthday.”
No, it isn’t.
“Thanks again,” Mom says, waving him off and closing the door before she pulls me into a careful hug.
Warmth from her body seeps into my frozen bones, and I wrap my good arm around her and rest my head on her chest, siphoning what little comfort I can. “He’d want you to celebrate, honey,” she whispers, rubbing a soothing hand up and down my spine. “He’d want you to go in there with a smile on your face as you open his gifts.”
“I can’t.” My words are muffled against her chest, and I watch in a kind of a daze as Nana collects each box and carries it into the living room.
“Yes, you can.” Nana’s confident words filter out from the open door, bouncing off the sage-green walls of our hall. “My Little Poppy is one of the strongest people I know.”
It sure doesn’t feel like it anymore.
“Come on, sweetheart.” Nana comes to my side and curls her small hand around mine. “Let’s see what your beautiful young man has sent you.”
Garrick is so thoughtful. I doubt there is a man on this planet who comes close to him in that regard or his organizational skills. Although, it’s probably more to do with having to get my gifts arranged early around exams.
I let Nana and Mom lead me into the living room and help me onto the couch.
In the six days since I was discharged from the hospital, I’ve had to rely on them a lot. I can’t even do basic things for myself. It’ll be five more weeks before the cast is removed from my arm, and I’m already frustrated and impatient at how restricted I am. My ribs will take the same time to heal, so I’m stuck here, trapped in a prison of my own making, slowly going out of my mind with grief and pain and remorse and loneliness.
I miss Garrick so much.
He’s become such an integral part of my life that not having him around is already unbearable.
Mom drives me to the hospital every morning on her way to work, and I Uber home. Nana takes me every evening, reading and knitting in the waiting room while I visit with my love. Thankfully, I have managed to avoid Ivy. She only visits in the afternoon when I’m not here.
There is no change in Garrick’s condition, and although Hudson says his dad is still hopeful, the risk is higher the longer my boyfriend remains comatose. There is brain activity, which is an encouraging sign, yet he still sleeps.
The colorful flowers take center stage on our glossy black coffee table, and my heart aches as I catalog my favorite flowers, knowing Garrick would have been very specific in his request to ensure I got a bouquet I’d love. He goes to so much trouble to ensure my happiness, and I think I take it for granted sometimes. Presently, I’m making daily promises to myself to be a better girlfriend. I only hope I get the chance to make it up to him. I can’t bear to think of him not waking up, so I’m trying not to go there, but it’s hard.
Right now, the pain coursing through my body is so powerful I can barely breathe.
“There’s a card,” Nana says, slipping me a white envelope with my name written on it in Garrick’s neat handwriting.
“I feel sick,” I whisper, resting my fingers on the paper as I cry buckets inside. On the outside, I’m the same emotionless droid I’ve been all week. Since those first few early days, when I couldn’t open my eyes without crying, I haven’t cried a solitary tear. It’s as if the well has completely dried up.
Inside, I’m dying a little more each day, and if it wasn’t for Mom and Nana, I know I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed each morning. But I am trying for them because I see how worried they are. I have already put them through the wringer, and I can’t add more to the pile. So, I get up every day, I shower and dress, and I force words from my mouth and plaster fake smiles on my lips. I shovel food that tastes like sandpaper down my throat and wrap my tears up iron tight so they don’t have to listen to me vocally falling apart. When the nightmares invade my dreams at night—during the few precious hours of sleep I manage to grab—I scream into my pillow so I don’t wake them.
“I can read it to you if you like,” Mom offers, yanking me out of my depressive thoughts. Although it’s cowardly, I nod and quickly hand the envelope off to her like it’s on fire.
