Page 47 of Life Or Death

“It’s covered with a bandage,” I lie. “So, there’s nothing to really see.”

Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue. I offer to make her breakfast, but she tells me she can do it herself, and the next thing I know she’s moving around the kitchen, grabbing a box of cereal, the carton of milk, and bowls for both of us.

She sets a bowl in front of me.

“I’m glad you didn’t die.”

She says it so nonchalantly. Something cracks open in my chest, and I feel the fresh sting of tears fill my eyes. The normal response would be to tell her I share the sentiment, that I’m grateful God spared me, but I’m not there yet, and I’ve never been a good liar.

A week passes before I know it, every morning is the same. I drag myself out of bed before dawn, shower with the shower chair Tori ordered off Amazon, and get dressed in clothes that don’t irritate my skin. Tori drops Poppy at camp, then swings back to get me for my seven-thirty PT appointment.

Physical therapy is brutal. My new therapist works me through exercises that leave me shaking. Today she had me doing lateral step-ups on a four-inch platform, and I nearly face-planted twice.

At eight thirty, Tori picked me up and dropped me back at the apartment. Then she headed to the laundromat. From there, she’ll go straight to work, leaving me alone in the apartment for most of the day.

Normally, I’d pop a sleeping pill and try to nap. Avoiding sleep every night so I don’t wake Poppy has been catching up to me now that I’ve been getting my ass kicked at therapy.

I feel like a zombie.

Instead, I grab the laptop Tori and I share, scroll through job listings and side-hustle websites. Remote data entry. Virtual assistant. Freelance writing. Customer service rep. Everything requires experience I don’t have or skills I will probably never develop.

An hour later, I come across one of those survey sites that promises five dollars for every ten-minute questionnaire. After clicking through a bunch of mind-numbing questions about my shopping habits, I earn a grand total of two dollars and thirty-seven cents.

I close the laptop and press my palms against my eyes just as the doorbell rings. My hands immediately fall from my face, and I stare at the door. Figuring it’s probably a delivery man dropping off something Tori ordered, I push up from the chair. I don’t bother with my cane— it’s only a few feet.

I shuffle my way over and peer into the peephole, my eyes widening when Amelia’s face comes into view.

I haven’t seen her since the night of the fire. Tori told me about an incident involving her son, and how he almost was kidnapped, but that was in the beginning of my recovery, so I don’t really recall all the details. I know she called to check on me a couple of times, but she never called me. I suppose it’s fair to assume she didn’t have my new number, but I’m sure she could’ve asked Tori for it.

I unlock the door and pull it open.

Amelia’s eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us speaks. Her dark hair is longer than I recall, pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. She’s wearing a simple sundress and sandals, and she’s carrying a bouquet of sunflowers, along with a loaf of bread that appears to be from the farmers’ market.

I open my mouth to say hello, but the word dies on my tongue as her face crumples. The tears come fast and hard, her shoulders shaking as she continues to stare at me with a sorrowful expression on her face.

“Amelia—”

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out. “God, Jess, I’m so sorry. I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve . . .” Her voice trails as she presses her lips together, and another tear slips free. “I have no excuse.”

“It’s fine,” I say, because that’s what people say when someone apologizes for something that isn’t fine. Then, I move aside, giving her room to enter. “Come in.”

She enters the apartment, setting the flowers and the loaf of bread on the kitchen table, then turns to face me, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands.

“It’s not fine. I should’ve been there for you. But I didn’t know how to look at you and not feel guilty.”

My brows furrow as I shut the door. “Why would you feel guilty?”

“I was there with you that night. If I wasn’t in such a rush to get out of there that night, I wouldn’t have been in the office closing out the registers. I might have been able to get to you. I could’ve⁠—”

I cut her off. “There was nothing you could’ve done to change the outcome of what happened, Amelia.”

“They checked me out in the ambulance and released me before you even made it to the hospital.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “I wanted to come. I swear, but then everything happened with Dylan and Della. By the time things settled down, they had moved you to the other hospital. I got in my car at least half a dozen times, but I couldn’t do it. I just kept imagining you lying in that bed, and I’d think about how it should’ve been me, or⁠—”

“Amelia,” I murmur. “It shouldn’t have been anyone.”

She nods, but I can tell she doesn’t fully believe me.

“You’re here now, and I can promise you, I’m better company than I was when I was in the hospital,” I tell her.