When Sparks Fly Page 7

  “I’m sorry if I’ve been overbearing. Just … seeing you like this is hard.” Her eyes are watery and she clasps her hands tightly in front of her, as if she’s struggling to keep them still.

  “You’re not being overbearing at all. I know you’re worried, and I completely understand. I think we’re all feeling the same thing, thinking a lot about Mom and Dad, and how this could have gone a very different way. But I need you and Harley to focus on Spark House and let Declan focus on me.”

  She blows out a breath. “Okay. But please promise if things aren’t going well, you’ll tell us. We will make it work, no matter what. You come first.”

  I give her hand another reassuring squeeze. “Promise.”

  Declan returns a few minutes later, and they wheel me to the front doors of the hospital. Getting out of a bed and into a wheelchair is one thing, getting my ass into the back of an SUV is totally another. I need help, a lot of it.

  Declan wraps one arm around my waist and loops my working arm over his shoulder as we hop-hobble to the open door. I can’t even pull myself up into the vehicle because my ribs are still tender and I’m annoyingly weak.

  It takes some planning and maneuvering, but I eventually manage to get into the back seat while London stands behind Declan with her arms crossed and her lips pursed. This is going to be a long recovery if she can’t forgive him.

  Harley gets in on the other side and helps me adjust my position so I’m semi-comfortable. Once Harley secures my seat belt, she and London give me awkward hugs and insist I call them as soon as I’m settled. London wanted to follow us home, but they have a meeting in an hour and need to get back to Spark House—yet another reason why Declan taking care of me is logical.

  I close my eyes when Declan shifts the SUV into gear and leaves the parking lot. It’s the first time I’ve been in a vehicle since the accident and the anxiety is overwhelming.

  “You doing okay back there?” Declan asks, eyes flitting between the rearview mirror and the road every time we stop at a light.

  I crack a lid. “So far so good. I’m sorry about London. I know she hasn’t been easy to deal with.”

  His knuckles go white as his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “You don’t need to apologize. She’s being a sister and she has every right to be angry with me, considering I’m the reason you’re in this state.”

  “The guy in the white truck is the reason I’m in this state.” According to the news, he was twenty-one years old. He slammed into a transport truck and did not survive the crash he caused. I don’t know whether it’s better that he doesn’t have to live with the consequences of his actions and all the people he hurt as a result or not. Regardless, it’s sad that he had to die due to carelessness, and a reminder that life is fragile.

  The difficult part of being in an accident that is well-documented by the news is that I can review the footage on a regular basis should I so desire. It’s become a bit of an unhealthy obsession, a constant reminder that it could have been so much worse. And likely would have been if I hadn’t swerved when I did.

  It’s hard to breathe properly on the drive home, fear needling its way under my skin. The sound of metal on metal feels like so much more than a memory. “Can you talk, please?” I ask Declan.

  “Sure. Yeah. You okay?” His jaw flexes along with his hands on the wheel.

  “Yeah. No. Just memories of the accident. I need a distraction.”

  “Right. Okay.” He taps the wheel like he’s searching for something to talk about that isn’t going to make my anxiety worse. “Mark went out with a woman he met through a dating app last weekend.”

  Mark is pretty old-fashioned about the whole dating thing. He prefers to meet people organically, but he’s not big on anything but sports bars and sports. And while he’s one of very few male elementary school teachers, he won’t date anyone he works with, so that’s another obstacle for him. “Oh wow! How’d that go?”

  “Eh, well, it started out great, but it went south pretty fast.”

  “Why? What happened? Did she catfish him or use a picture from a decade ago?”

  “Nope and nope. So they have an amazing amount in common, grew up a couple of counties over from each other, and even had common friends from the neighboring high schools. He was pretty sure he recognized her, because he grew up in a small town and all.”

  “Uh-oh, did he date her sister when he was in high school or something?”

  Declan shakes his head with a smile. “Nope, it’s even better, or worse, depending on how you look at it, anyway. So, you know how Mark always has a family reunion every five years?”

  “Yeah, big huge thing, right? Couple hundred people? Like the whole extended family get together and they basically rent the majority of a park for a weekend and do the camping thing.”

  “You got it. Well, they start talking about camping and their families, and he mentions how he looks forward to his summer camping trip he’s going on, and she says her family does exactly the same thing.”

  “That seems entirely too coincidental.” I can 100 percent see where this is going, and it’s not good.

  “Oh yeah, it’s definitely not a coincidence. It turns out he’s right and he does recognize her because they’re second cousins, and they’ve been attending these freaking things since they were kids.”

  “Oh man. Only freaking Mark.”

  “Ah, but that’s not all. The girl didn’t see the issue with them dating even though they’re related. She figured second cousins was removed enough for it to be cool.”

  “No! How did Mark handle that?”

  “Well, next year happens to be the reunion, and he told her he didn’t really think it was a great idea to get involved with family because biologically it meant having kids was a no-go and he definitely wants a family.”

  I have to choke back a laugh because it makes my ribs ache. “Leave it to Mark to drop the I want a family bomb on his first date with his second cousin. There are going to be jokes for the next decade.”

  “I know. And she was all, ‘But we could adopt.’”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I shit you not. Mark thought bringing up kids on the first date would send her packing, but apparently he was wrong. The best part was that she thought it would be easier since they already knew and liked each other’s families.”

  “Good lord. How is he going to manage next year’s reunion?”

  “I don’t know, but he may need to bring a fake girlfriend if he doesn’t have one by then.” Declan pulls into the underground parking, and my shoulders finally come down from my ears.

  Getting me out of the SUV and into my wheelchair is a feat all on its own. It’s a lot of awkwardness and trying to figure out how to hang on to Declan without my casts getting in the way.

  He shoulders the bag my sisters packed for me and wheels me to the elevator. “How you feeling?” he asks once we’re on the way up to the twelfth floor.

  “Glad to be home, but nervous,” I say truthfully. Being in a hospital sucks, but the staff is trained, and the environment is designed for people with limited mobility. Now I’ll be back in our condo, and I’ll basically need help doing everything. All I’ll have is a nurse popping by in a few days to check on me, and weekly doctor appointments to monitor healing.

  “It’s gonna be okay, Ave. I’ve got everything set up to make things as easy as possible for you.”

  I nod but don’t say anything as the elevator comes to a stop at our floor. It’s more awkward maneuvering to get me down the hall and into the condo, which has been totally reorganized.

  The dining room table, which we never really use apart from when we have the guys over and serve food buffet style, has been removed. The couch and chairs have been shifted around to make a straight path from the front door to the hospital-style bed in the center of the living room. There’s one of those wheelie hospital tables right beside it, and it’s positioned so I have a great view of the giant flat-screen TV.
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  “We couldn’t get the bed down the hall unless I rented the smaller one, and I didn’t think you’d want to be crammed into something tiny, so I figured this was a better option. Once you have a bit more mobility, we can work on getting you into your bedroom, but for now, the doctors suggested this would be best.”

  “When did you have time to do this?” Almost every piece of furniture has been moved.

  “It took me and the guys an afternoon. It wasn’t that hard with three sets of hands, but Jerome likes to rearrange things seventy times to see what works best.”

  “You must have loved that.”

  “Majority rules came into play a lot.” He squeezes my shoulder. “You wanna lie down or stay in your chair?”

  “Um, I think I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Okay, give me a minute to make sure everything is ready, and I’ll get you sorted out.” He rushes down the hall. It’s good we have separate bathrooms.

  While I wait, I take in the reorganized space.

  This hospital-style bed looks a lot comfier than the one I was just sleeping in, but it also reminds me that I’m far from okay. My favorite quilt decorates the bed. The one my mom had made when I was a teenager. I always refused to get rid of my old sports jerseys and shirts even after I’d long outgrown them. So for my sixteenth birthday, she had them made into a quilt. It’s the last birthday gift I ever got from her and it goes with me almost everywhere.

  Despite the fact that I’m closing in on thirty, I still keep it on my bed, and I often bring it out to the living room to cuddle under when we’re watching TV. My favorite pillows are piled up on top of it, and a few of the magazines and books from my nightstand are on the table beside it.

  I’m not much of a crier, but I find myself on the verge of tears for what feels like the hundredth time since I woke with half my body wrapped in fiberglass casts, unable to manage even the simplest, everyday tasks. I take a few deep, steadying breaths, reminding myself to stay strong and that I’ll get through this like I’ve gotten through everything else, one challenge at a time.

  Declan returns and wheels me down the hall, already having learned exactly how to maneuver to get me into the bathroom. There’s one of those things over top of the toilet with handrails on it—something I associate with the frail and elderly. At the hospital I had a catheter for the first few days, but as soon as I could manage getting out of bed and getting to the bathroom—with the help of a nurse and often my sisters—the doctor removed it.

  I look at the toilet and then at Declan. He claps once. “You ready to do this?”

  “As ready as I’m going to be, I guess.” He comes around the side with my bad leg, and I hook my good arm around his neck. Once my grip is solid, he slides both of his arms around my back and helps hoist me out of the wheelchair. It’s awkward at best. And my ribs are ridiculously sore.

  Living together means we’re close, but we’ve never been particularly touchy, apart from when we were trying to get the ball from each other during soccer practice.

  This is different, though. I’m not used to needing help with banal things like going to the bathroom. My chest comes flush with his, hard edges and angles warm against mine. It’s not clinical like it was with the nurses. Maybe because he’s my friend and there’s more body-to-body contact?

  It takes some maneuvering, but we finally mange to get me over to the toilet. I drop down with a groan, my body stiff and sore, partly from the accident, partly because I’ve been lying in the same position for hours on end, and other than the limited physical therapy, there’s been minimal movement, so everything is that much more taxing.

  I’m seated, with my pants still pulled up. Declan steps back, eyes bouncing around before he finally blows out a breath. “Uh, do you need help with the…” He motions to my lower half.

  “No. I can get it,” I say quickly, willing my cheeks not to turn red. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  “Okay, I’ll wait in the hall, then?” It’s more question than statement, and he thumbs over his shoulder.

  “If you want to grab my phone, I can text you when I’m done. Better than you standing out there listening to me pee, right?” Based on how we both look away, my attempt at a joke falls flat.

  “I’ll be right back.” Declan rushes out of the bathroom and returns a moment later, phone in hand. He leaves it on the counter and closes the door behind him. While I was in the hospital, they had me in one of those horrible open-back gowns. I couldn’t get a pair of underwear over my cast, so Harley, being the ingenious and smart sister that she is, grabbed a few pairs of my bikini bottoms that tie up at the sides.

  It meant needing someone to retie it for me once I was done, but that was a lot easier to manage when it was my sister, less so now that I have to depend on Declan.

  It takes quite a bit of effort to get my modified sweats down over my butt—we cut the left leg off at the upper thigh so the hole was wide enough to pull over my cast—along with my bikini bottoms. It might make sense for me to wear long nightshirts and forgo the panties until I don’t need help in this department.

  On the upside, I’m happy to be in the privacy of my own home, in a familiar bathroom that doesn’t smell like cleaning supplies and the awful soap hospitals have. And I don’t have to wipe with the crappy, single-ply, rough toilet paper anymore. Once I’m done with my business, I consider trying to get into the wheelchair on my own.

  My usable arm and leg are weak, though, and I’m so freaking exhausted. I give up on that idea three seconds after I have it and text Declan instead. He’s in the bathroom almost as soon as I hit send. Once I’m back in the chair, he wheels me over to the sink, pumps soap into my hand, and then realizes I can’t even wash it without assistance.

  As he takes my hand between his, working the soap into a lather, I consider how much of a challenge it’s going to be on bath days. I figure I can go a few days without one, just until I have a little more control over my body. And I can wipe myself down daily with a washcloth.

  “Ave? Is everything all right?”

  “Huh?” I’ve been staring at my hand, which is already dry. “Sorry, spaced out there for a second.”

  “You want me to make you something to eat? You must be pretty sick of that hospital food.” He wheels me back to the living room, where my new bed is set up.

  “Uh, yeah, sure. That might be nice. Can you help me into the bed first, though? I think I’m about done with sitting up for now.”

  “Of course. Yeah. You feeling worn out?”

  “It’s a lot to take in, you know?”

  Declan lowers the bedrail and hoists me out of the chair. I’m in ragdoll territory, exhaustion sweeping over me. It takes what’s left of my energy to keep my good arm wrapped around his neck while he lifts me up and helps get me situated on the mattress. I stretch out, happy to be lying down again, at least for now.

  Declan fusses with the pillows, arranging them so my casted leg is elevated and so is my arm.

  He turns on the TV and hands me the remote. “Anything in particular that you’d like to eat?”

  “Um…” I consider all of my favorites and what isn’t going to take long to make because I’m feeling like I might need a nap soon. “Oh! How about grilled peanut butter and honey?”

  “I can definitely do that. I DVR’d a bunch of your favorite shows. Why don’t you find something you want to watch, and I’ll make you that sandwich?”

  I flip through the recorded shows and settle on The Bachelor. Mostly we watch sports, and more specifically soccer, but I also like romantic comedies, and I have a thing for this particular reality show. I’ve missed a couple of episodes while I’ve been in the hospital, so now is a good time to catch up.

  I settle back in my bed and let my eyes fall closed as the opening credits roll.

  The whole drive home and bathroom experience must have worn me right out because the next time I open my eyes, the sun has gone down. The TV is still on, but the sound is
low and it’s an infomercial. I’ve obviously been out for hours.

  Declan is stretched out on the couch, but his eyes are closed. I wonder how he’s been sleeping this past week. I imagine not well, considering he basically refused to leave my hospital room apart from the two times they sent him home to change and shower.

  My sandwich sits untouched on the table beside me, along with a glass of water. I’m guessing the sandwich is probably cold and the water is warm. I reach over and pick up one of the triangles, noting that he’s cut it exactly the way I like it, into three sections, once diagonally and then again through half, creating three triangles, one of which is bigger than the other two.

  I’m right. It’s cold and the bottom is soggy, but I take a bite anyway. My mom used to make me grilled peanut butter and honey sandwiches when I was a kid. It was my very favorite thing to eat, and only she could seem to make it the right way. When she passed away, I started making them myself, but they were never quite as good.

  It doesn’t matter that it’s cold, or the bottom is all soft, it’s still the most delicious thing I’ve eaten in more than a week. I scarf down the rest of it, drain my lukewarm water, and lean back against my pillow again. I hate that something as simple as eating wears me out, but I close my eyes again, too tired to even bother wiping the crumbs off my chest before I pass out.

  * * *

  The next couple of days are a rough transition from hospital nurses to Nurse Declan. I understand that he doesn’t want to leave me alone out here in the living room, but every time I shift or move or so much as make a noise that isn’t an exhale, he practically jumps off the couch, and that in turn startles me awake. Two days in, we’re both ridiculously bitchy from all the broken sleep, and I’m on the verge of snapping. So I tell him that his sleep farts are disgusting and they keep waking me up because they’re so rancid. It’s a lie, but it does the trick.

  It’s tough to find any kind of balance. I’m not used to this version of Declan, always hovering, always fussing.