Yeah, there are Oakley and Will, but they aren’t the same as having a family.
I have no family. No support network. I thought I was going to find one with them.
My eyes ache behind my closed lids, and the knife I imagined stabbing Derek with plunges into my chest. The pain is so real, I use my braced hand to touch my sternum to make sure it is only emotional and not physical.
The reminder of my lack of parents and family twice so closely together, when it’s not something I usually allow myself to think about, ever, is the tipping point. Everything is too fucking much.
My throat and eyes burn, and a sob sits at the base of my throat, threatening to burst out of me if I open my mouth.
I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want to have to do things on my own.
So, I cave the tiniest bit and nod in acceptance.
Derek’s hand squeezes my own, then he leads me to his car and holds open the passenger door.
I stare at the front seat and then glance at the driver’s. Too fucking close. Too much.
I slip free of his grasp and go to the back door and let myself in, closing the door on him. His shocked face turns to a rueful smile before he taps my door and goes around to the driver’s side.
I can let him drive me to the appointment. I can let him be there for me. Just this one time. Just for right now.
I can go back to building my castle walls tomorrow.
Chapter 35
Emery
Slipping my hand back into my brace and doing up the straps, I wait for Dr. Everett to finish typing up her notes. Compared to how much it hurt to move my thumb and forefinger this time last week, the fact that there is only a mild numbness and a barely there ache in my wrist is amazing.
I’ve been super conscious of not using my hand for much more than jabbing at the keys on my laptop, when my brain has been okay with staring at the screen. And talking about my brain, that seems to be healing as well. I’m only really needing pain meds toward the end of the day now, and the nausea is all but gone. And the bruises and scrapes are starting to fade to yellow.
All ticks, in my opinion.
The only thing that is really lingering is the brain fog, which apparently can last several weeks, which explains my sluggish thinking, overly emotional state, and the endless loop of daddy replays in my head. Which, yes, annoying, but thankfully will go away with time.
I just need to stay strong until then.
“Okay, Emery,” Dr. Everett starts as she finishes up at the computer and rolls her weird saddle seat toward me. “Everything is healing really well. We won’t need to do another CT since you’re reporting reduced symptoms. If that changes, you must come back. Immediately. As for your wrist, that is also healing nicely. Continue wearing your brace for the rest of this week, then over the weekend, you can do some light activity without the brace. If that goes well, you’re good to leave it off.”
I nod, taking in her words, but all that really registers is that I’ll be able to wash my hair properly this weekend. The one-handed wash I attempted a few days ago didn’t accomplish the job, at all. “Sounds good.”
She hands me several folded pieces of paper. “I’ve written two referrals for you. One is for a physiotherapist and the other is for a therapist.”
Her hand appears palm out between us, blocking me from rejecting her words. “If you are about to tell me that you don’t need the therapist, that is completely up to you. Although, I do highly recommend it. Worst-case scenario is that it’s a complete waste of time. Best-case, she helps you deal with what you wentthrough in a healthy and productive way. But like I said, the choice is yours. The physiotherapist, however, is non-negotiable. Book an appointment for as soon as possible, there is usually a fairly long wait time.”
The teenager in me wants me to roll my eyes at her as I take the papers. But I don’t. She’s trying to help, and if I’m going around telling my daddies that I don’t need them and that I’m an adult, then I need to act like it. “Okay, thank you for your help. Are we done or…”
She smiles and waves at the door. “All done. You don’t need to reschedule. But you have my office’s number if you need anything.”
I slip off the examination table and grab my bag from the floor by the handle at the top and head toward the door.
“Emery?”
I turn back, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”
“Give the therapist a chance, I think you’ll like her.” Dr. Everett offers me a final smile before turning back to her computer, leaving me standing there staring at her.
With a shake of my head, I pull the door open and head to the out-patient waiting area. Derek is exactly where I left him, ankle resting on his knee, phone out and scrolling or whatever it is that a man his age does on his phone.
