Page 86 of After We Fall

“I will.”

“I’m starting to believe you,” I whisper.

“Good.”

“Why did you tell me that story?”

“Because I had Robert Kitson to pull me out of my pain.” He cups my cheek with his palm. “But you didn’t have anyone.”

“I did okay by myself.”

“You did more than okay, Penelope. You excelled. Flourished, even. But you didn’t quite get yourself out of that pain, did you?”

A tear slips out of the corner of my eye, and he skims his thumb through its path.

“That’s going to change, baby.”

21

Five.

No, six. Definitely six.

No. Maybe a seven. Yes. I am positive that I am a seven on the annoyed scale.

Two weeks post-accident, I’m free of my sling. An eight on the joy scale this morning. However, Harlan came over to the ranch and decided to swing dance with Meredith in the living room in honor of my sling removal, and I am highly annoyed.

“It’s not even the same word, Harlan. Sling is different from swing,” I say, watching the world’s worst dancer throw Meredith around the carpet.

Once again, the furniture is pushed back against the walls of the room. I’m starting to wonder why this room is furnished at all.

“Trust me, Mr. Holcombe,” Tanya says, “I’m studying for the SAT. Swing and sling are very different words.”

My heart swells, and I declare a five on the affection scale, in addition to the five on the proud scale for Tanya.

This rating system is baffling. I never understood how many emotions I experienced during a day until Dr. Ridding asked me to pay attention. It’s one thing to keep track of my physical pain fluctuations. It’s a completely different challenge to quantify every emotional fluctuation.

But as Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood” plays in the background while Harlan swings Meredith across the room, reality seeps into my skin, sitting awhile, waiting to be acknowledged.

I’m annoyed with Harlan because his entire presentation is overstimulating my senses. The song is like a friend giving me an unintentionally brutal massage. For a few beats, I enjoy the music, but every note of the trumpets jolts my brain tissue.

I’m not relishing my bosses’ performance. Neither is my three on the headache scale.

The appropriate social choice to make would be to allow the happy newlyweds to enjoy their dance. They are, after all, celebrating me. How can I put a stop to this moment? Harlan came in super proud, ready to celebrate me getting my sling removed. It was sweet, well-intentioned, ill-timed, and annoying. As if he was my real-life big brother.

On a typical day, I would simply endure the song and move on to the next task. But my normal no longer exists, my body no longer allows me to push through. If I permit the song to continue, odds are high that a migraine will force its way into my day.

Trumpets build in the melody, teasing me to believe the end of the dance is near. Instead, the song shifts into an additional verse. My headache scale bumps up to a four.

I look down at my wringing hands and take a breath. “I apologize,” I say to the room, “but could I request that we put this celebration on hold?”

Everyone turns their focus to me and stares.

Luke enters the room, pauses midstep, and focuses on me. “What’s happening?”

I swallow. “I, uh, asked them to stop dancing.”

The blinding smile that comes from Luke shoots my proud-of-myself scale to an eight. “Great.” He acts like I ask for what I need every day of the week. “Do you want the music turned off too?”