Another two minutes, and I’m standing. Wrapping my hands around the handles of my walker, I shuffle slowly and deliberately down the short hallway to the first floor bedroom. I converted the space into a home gym not long after moving in. Well, I didn’t, but two of my PT’s friends did.
Cursing at the treadmill as I climb on, I set it for the ridiculously low speed of two miles an hour and flip on the little television mounted on the wall.
One episode ofThe Officeand I can stop.
Each step sends more sparks racing up and down my back and legs, but by the time the show’s over, my muscles have loosened up enough that I’m almost steady.
“You’ll never be a hundred percent again, Quinton,” Jack, my rehab coordinator, says to me as I stare out the window at the rain. “But if you keep working the program when you get out of here, you can probably make it to a solid seventy.”
“What the fuck is seventy percent?” I spit out. “Only falling three out of every ten steps? Because that’s not acceptable. I want my life back.”
My life. Back then—two months after I escaped Alec—I thought I’dhavea life again. Snorting as I flip off the TV, I make it to the weight bench without the walker, and sink down to start working my quads.
After every exercise, I make notes in the little booklet I share with my current PT, Manny. He’s the best in Seattle, and while I can barely afford him, he’s one of the few therapists who offers in-home visits. I need to take back control of my own body. To feel something close tonormalagain. Alec didn’t just steal months of my life. He robbed me of something even more precious.
Any hope of trusting myself—or anyone else—ever again.
* * *
The clientI’ve been working for this past month is thrilled with the website I built, and our final video call is tinged with a hint of sadness on my end. Each time I finish a project and say goodbye to these small glimpses into the outside world—into other people’s worlds—I fight a new bout of depression. A fresh reminder that I’m alone and always will be.
At least I already have two new projects lined up that will carry me through the holidays. The idea of spending those dark months all alone—the short days, the endless nights—leaves me hollow.
If I were stronger...
No. Don’t go there, Q.
“If you need anything else, Rebecca,” I say, forcing my smile to match the client’s expression on screen, “you know how to reach me.”
“Quinton?” Her eyes narrow slightly, and she leans closer to her camera. “You take care of yourself now. I mean it. While I appreciate you making time for me on a Saturday, weekends should be for relaxing. I’m going to need your help again in February, and you’d better not still be so pale. Get some sun. Take a vacation. Anything but work yourself to death.” Rebecca carries herself like a grandmother, despite not being much older than I am, and when she shakes her finger at me, I chuckle.
“I’ll try. I promise. I have you all scheduled for the second Monday in February, and I’ll send over the contract by the end of next week. Don’t forget to tell me when you announce the rebrand so I can help you spread the word.”
We say our goodbyes, and before I shut down my workstation, my gaze flicks to my email.
Nothing new. Not from anyone I want to talk to, anyway.
Like Graham.
The words bounce around in my head before I can stop them. Followed quickly by self-loathing and frustration.
Well, maybe if you hadn’t been a dick to him... For fuck’s sake, Q. How would you feel if someone tracked you down from an ice cream receipt?
Answer? I would have fallen into a panic attack so severe, nothing would have been able to pull me out. Before I moved to Seattle, my brother and my lawyer helped set me up with a new identity. Quinton Davis disappeared, and Quinton Silver was “born.” Along with a corporation—Silver Star Technologies—that signed the lease on this townhouse, pays the utilities, and handles all of my banking needs. There’s no way Alec should ever be able to find me, but that doesn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder—figuratively—every single day.
And yet, I tracked down a guy who didn’t give me his last name just because he brought me ice cream. I should have known better. Hell, I shouldn’t have messaged him at all. My time with Alec not only left me physically broken, it shrunk my world down to these four walls. I lost most of my friends to that asshole’s lies. The few who stuck around? Or who led me to believe they stuck around? Well, I messaged one of them before I left the rehab facility for Seattle, and two days later, Alec showed up at Thatcher House, demanding to see me. The security guards called the police, but the officers didn’t want to do a damn thing—even though he’d violated the restraining order I had against him.
“He didn’t threaten you, Mr. Davis.”
“The security guards had to subdue him! When he finally agreed to leave the building, he sat in his car across the street staring at Thatcher House for three hours. How is that not a threat?”
“Don’t engage with him and you’ll be fine.”
I’m never going toengagewith Alec again. But that means cutting off contact with anyone who might eventhinkhe’s an okay guy. And narcissists? Sociopaths? They can fool almost anyone—for a while.
Shutting down my computer, I head for the kitchen. I can’t even handle microwaving a frozen dinner tonight. After filling Clementine’s bowl, I pull the rest of the mint chip out of the freezer and head upstairs. A Netflix marathon is all I have the energy for.
* * *
