Patrick takes me outside to my rideshare. “My best friend,” he states. “My forever friend.”
I wish.
Chapter 8
The following days alone at the hotel were okay, but lonely. I’d kind of gotten into the idea of being with someone in a way I hadn’t before. Maybe I should have said,Ciao, at some point to Dave to make him mine.
Flying is always so shitty and stressful, but I’m happy to have a direct flight home. I board in zombie mode and sink into my window seat. Even though the airline touts that there is free Wi-Fi, per usual, it isn’t working, and I’m kind of relieved for that. It’s simultaneously stressful and fantastic that I’m cut off from the outside world, and so I pull my yarn and needles from my bag and continue working on the sweater I’m making for Megan Madonna.
The plane lands, and I want to scream because my phone yells at me for ages as service kicks in. The excessive dings and alerts are on me, as I curated such a huge, sweet, very kind following, and so I do feel as though I owe my social media followers something.
I about throw my hands up and post a short video about landing in Boston. Why people love to see me picking up my luggage and meeting my Lyft, I’ll never really get, but if it keeps them hooked on my stuff and moves them toward the restaurants I love, then I’ll nod, and smile, and post.
I do think they all mean well, and who doesn’t want happy, light stuff these days?
Shit, maybe I should go onLove Islandand be cut off from the world for weeks. While I’m probably too old, I could possibly pull a guy for a chat. Or talk about “exploring” someone, as one does on that show.
I think about Dave and his offer. Disappearing for a while is sounding pretty good.
When I’m in a car, I catch up on texts, and my heart about stops when I see a message from Patrick.
Patrick:I’m not feeling good. Not because of the pickle-truck incident. Something is happening after surgery. About to puke.
This text is concerning. Vomiting after a head injury is worrisome.
When the car stops at my apartment, I run up the stairs and pretty much hurl my bag across the floor and race around. I shouldn’t text Patrick’s wife or RobBob. They must be overwhelmed.
Goddammit.
Patrick is probably overreacting.
Trying to sound casual, I reply.
Me:Nothing wrong with puking. I’d puke too. Brain stuff is gross. But surgery went really well!
Patrick:It did. Okay, I think you’re right. Yes. I’m good.
The cats.
The cats, I decide—while I amble around my apartment in a fog and toss clothes from my trip into the washing machine—need the things. Food. I’m going to focus on them. Feeding them is at least something I can do to help right now.
No idea how I make it down the back-alley stairs, but I set out containers of food, and soon, there are feral ones devouring food. My little guy doesn’t show himself, and it just makes me more miserable.
I limply get up and start up the stairs. When I’m only three feet from the ground, I lose my balance and trip on a step, and unable to recover, I crash into the alley, catching my fall with my left hand.
The crack I hear is grotesque. The immediate pain in my wrist is enough to make me sick. For some reason, I sit on the bottom step for a few minutes, watching the feral bunch and pretending this pain isn’t as violent as it is. I wait until the cats finish their meal and run off. Despite my fruitless hope, I gather up plates from the alley and go back to my apartment, pretending nothing has happened.
Shock and denial are strong forces.
After I dump the dishes into the sink, I look at my wrist in the light. It’s enough to make me puke.
It’s really horrible. Already swelling like mad.
I swear all the swears. The deformity is so vile.
Maybe it’s just a bad sprain? Sprains can swell and look hideous. This is probably just that. Like, lots of things hurt at the time and for a bit after, and then it’s nothing. Like, stubbing a toe makes you want to scream for the first ten minutes.
While I refuse to accept this is an actual injury, I use my right hand to fill a bowl with ice and water and dunk my wrist into the frigid bath for twenty minutes. I can only glance at my left hand. It’s so gross and looking at it makes me nearly puke. I go to bed with bags of ice. Even though I cry myself to sleep because it hurts so much, I know it’ll be fine tomorrow.
