Khalil’s excitement doesn’t deflate from my lack of it though. He’s the only one who ever had any reason to go back. My home, my real home, burned down months ago.
I have no home.
Khalil stands and walks over to the bed before picking up the paper that I glanced at once and never again from the nightstand. It’s a list of recommendations for physical therapists in the States to continue my outpatient treatment. Khalil places it on the swinging table overlapping the bed, and I look away to stare at the ceiling.
“The doctors said you’re recovering well and should be out of here in a couple of weeks. You need to choose which therapist you’re going to see once you’re out.”
“Pass,” I say immediately.
Khalil’s eyes become hard. “It’s nonnegotiable, Thor. You still have a long road ahead of you. You need to take this seriously.”
“I. Am.”
“Are you? We have to go three rounds with you every day just to convince you to get up and do the therapyhere.”
“What do you want from me, Khalil?”
“I want you to try! I want you to stop acting like you died. I want you to start living again. And I want you to forget about her.” He snatches the paper from the table and slams it against my chest. “She isn’t. Coming. Back.”
“Fine.” Snatching the paper from him, I scan the list of reputable clinics that’s over a dozen long and all scattered around the West Coast, and I grit my teeth in frustration as I mentally cross them all off.
Seattle. Portland. San Diego. Las Vegas. San Francisco.
Finally, my eyes arrive on the city I want, and I relax against the remaining pillows. “This one,” I say, pointing at the clinic listed third from the bottom. “I want this one.”
Khalil picks the paper up to read it and then looks at me over the top of it when he sees where it’s located. I stare back at him, and he swears but doesn’t argue as he yanks his phone from his pocket to make the arrangements.
Three out of four wishes ain’t bad.
I’m released from rehab a couple of weeks later and with enough medication to start a pharmacy. I threw them all in the trash on my way out, much to Khalil’s and Zeke’s annoyance since I’m even bitchier when I’m in pain. Not even being back in the States after a decade away is enough to cheer me up.
I feel like a fish out of water, and I know Khalil and Zeke feel the same way.
It’s…loudin Los Angeles, and the air isn’t as fresh as the wilds. It’s not a detail I ever noticed before we took Zeke and his horde and fled to Canada, but it sticks out in my mind now and tugs at my desire to return to our lonely cliff.
And the people…
There’s too fucking many of them. They’re always talking and rushing to one place or another, and snapping fucking photos as I try to see what the hell they see that’s so picture-worthy.
Now the Cold Peaks…that’s picturesque.
As for our current lodgings, Khalil managed to get in contact with his cousin Gary, who used to be his manager during his boxing days. Gary’s girlfriend has a few rental properties around the city, and she agreed to put us up in one of her furnished condos for a few weeks while we figured out our next move.
It’s where we are now as Khalil, Zeke, and I lounge around the living room staring at the TV, not talking and barely breathing as we focus on a live talk show.
In between pretending we aren’t here for one thing, I keep my promise and go to the physical therapy sessions, which become less of an exercise in will the stronger I feel myself getting. Khalil helps a lot with that too when we do some light exercises together. It’s good for him too since he hasn’t been eating, and he’s lost a lot of muscle tone keeping a constant vigilance over me.
I’m not going to be running any marathons anytime soon, but I can cross the room and stand long enough to shower on my own without getting winded.
The closer I get back to myself though, the more the dark circles under his eyes fade, so I push past the heartbreak and hopelessness because it feels like I’m healing him too. It’s not easy to see on the surface unless you really know him, but Khalil took Aurelia’s leaving the hardest. Most days, I barely recognize my best friend. He’s quicker to anger and completely closed off when he’s not focused on piecing me back together.
He thinks about her. Often. Always.
We all do.
But Khalil isn’t ready to face his feelings, so we bide our time and fill our days cyberstalking our girl. Unfortunately, her sightings are few and become rarer as time passes. And whenever her public appearances are unavoidable—usually of her dashing from her penthouse apartment to a chauffeuredcar surrounded by security—she’s always dressed in the most outlandish outfits. One day it’s baggy denim and oversize sweaters, and the next it’s flowy tunics and voluminous tulle.
Layers upon layers, as if she’s trying to hide.
