I discussed Ronny’s mental health with Tate. It wasn’t great before the accident, and it hadn’t really changed afterwards.
The night before he was set to get his leg casts off, he approached me in my room. He knocked on my door and I had to stop my conversation with Tate to answer. Thankfully it wasn’t a sexy call. I opened the door quickly and stared down at Ronny in his wheelchair.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I’ll be able to walk again soon,” he said, looking down at his lap. He began wringing his hands together. “Can I come in?”
“I’ll just go out there. I don’t think your chair will fit,” I said lamely. It probably would, but I had grown to like my privacy the last two months. He rolled himself back and we went into the living room.
“That’s kind of the point to why I wanted to talk to you. I’ll be able to move around freely again. Do you want me to move out?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I mean, probably.”
He flinched but nodded. He pushed himself away from me and looked at me with sad eyes.
“I know you made your choice, but I was still kind of hoping I was wrong. I guess not. I’ll start figuring out things in the morning.”
