I get not wanting to be a burden, but she literally can’t do a damn thing by herself right now, though that’s not stopping her from trying. I have to bring her food, water, pain meds, help her get to the bathroom, help her get out of the bathroom. I’m not complaining about helping her, it’s what I want to do, need to do, but she’s so resistant to any and all help that it’s exhausting watching her struggle.
My phone vibrates on my chest just as my eyes are drifting closed. I bolt upright, ready to spring into action for whatever she needs.
Papá.
I’d better get this over with before he shows up on my doorstep.
“Hola, Papá.”
“You left Belfast?” He spares me a greeting, launching straight into his first criticism of the day. At 6am, it’s earlier than usual, but from the sound of his voice he’s already been up for hours. The man never sleeps.
“I should never have gone to Belfast. I’m still having some trouble with my leg, my head isn’t on straight. I wouldn’t have given it my all.”
He sighs, disappointment floating down the line between us. “You want me to take you seriously when you say you want to play that silly game,hijo.”
Son. I don’t think that word means what he thinks it means.
“How can I take you seriously when you don’t follow through? Either you want to play that game or you don’t. This flaky attitude, this lack of commitment, it doesn’t bode well for handing the business over to you.”
Then don’t do it. Give it to someone who wants it. Give it to Artemis.
It makes my tongue scratchy to keep those words inside.
He launches into a diatribe about how I’m letting him down every time I fail on a commitment, how he’s depending on me, how I need to step up and show him I’m worthy of inheriting the family business.
My head’s throbbing, and I need to check on my girl.
“Are you listening to me?”
No. “Sí, Papá. You want me to call Mamá.”
The line goes dead without as much as a goodbye. He didn’t once ask how I’m recovering after the accident, never mind Edith. He’s worked with Edith’s father since we were little. He should give a shit.
But Alonso de la Peña doesn’t do trivial things like become invested in someone other than himself.
Ugh. Bitterness before breakfast isn’t good for my digestive system. I attempt to make us omelets in Edith’s kitchen. It takes me almost twenty minutes to find everything I need, then another twenty to make something that vaguely resembles scrambled eggs. It all went terribly wrong on the flip.
Trying a bite, my teeth hit something hard and crunchy.¡Dios mío!It’s an egg shell. I can’t feed her this. She’s depressed enough already without adding broken teeth to the mix.
Grabbing my phone—which is now covered in gooey egg and pieces of cheese—I wipe it off on the thigh of my sweats and pull up DoorDash. Once breakfast is ordered, I open the app for the meal prep service we use and pause our order. We’re going to be eating at home full time for the foreseeable future, and left to my own devices isn’t always the best plan.
A quick search shows a place that does home cooked, ready to reheat healthy food that goes straight into the oven or a pan on the stove. Our lives need to be as simple as we can possibly manage over the coming weeks and months. From what I’ve read, recovery isn’t going to be fun or easy. My freezer is damn near empty, and after a quick check in hers, I guesstimate how much we can handle, place an order, and am rather smug at the fact I’m inflicting my help on her whether she wants to accept it or not.
A scream of pain pierces my moment of glory, draining all the warmth from my body. I bolt to the bathroom.
Edith is on the floor in the bathroom, her pajama pants piled on one foot. She’s crying, her shoulders bouncing with each sob, and I’m pretty sure... yeah, she peed herself.
“Don’t.” Agony coats the single word as she holds up a hand to me. “Just... don’t say anything. Don’t look at me. Just... don’t.”
My strong and broken bird has no idea how resilient she is. She’s embarrassed, frustrated, the inferno in her soul is in pain, but she doesn’t see her power.
Her hair is twisted on top of her head in a knot. I don’t know when it was last washed. I can’t imagine how helpless and scared she feels right now, but all I see is strength. She needs help finding her way back to the badass, determined, take no shit best friend who got in the car with me that night.
Taking a step toward her, I shake my head when she glares at me. “Let me help you, Edie.”
“No, Pollo,” she spits at me.
There’s my girl. The firecracker. That little flicker of spite and grit is enough to give me hope. She’s still in there, and I’m not letting her forget who she is. I refuse to let her lose herself because she broke her fucking leg. The bones will heal, but her psyche might not if I don’t stop that train of self-destruction she’s intent on lying in front of.
