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“You don’t think she’d do anything stupid, do you?” I ask, needing to voice the possibility. “I heard what she said when she was leaving the casket.”

Quinn shakes her head. “I don’t think so... I’ll definitely keep an eye out for that, but I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to stay home with her. My father’s already getting on my case about when I’m coming back to the office, and I only have one week of leave left.”

“I’m more than willing to help,” I offer. “Especially with her current behavior the way it is. Clearly, depression’s setting in fast. Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything. You can’t do this all by yourself, alright?”

“Absolutely. Thank you for that. I know it can’t be easy for you to be around her with the way she blows up at you all the time.” Quinn says as she reaches for a bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. “Who wants a drink?”

“Make mine a double,” I say, not wanting to admit that I’ll stay no matter how badly she treats me.

Chapter 20

Ashley

“I have to go back to work on Monday,” Quinn says, plopping down next to me on my bed.

“Okay?” I let my tone rise, wondering where the random comment came from.

“I tried to see if I could get another week off, but HR said I’ve used all my vacation time, and Daddy dearest said he would be setting a bad example if he allowed me to take more than a month off,” she says with venom in her voice. The way she gets worked up over her father always cracks me up.

“Okay, so go back to work on Monday. What’s the big deal? Did you and Alex plan on doing something?” I ask even though I’m not really interested in hearing about how she and Alex are busy enjoying life.

“No, I can’t leave you here alone, Ashley,” Quinn informs me as though I’m a child who’s never been left home alone before.

I love her, but she’s really getting my nerves. Last week, she yelled at me for sitting around silently all the time, saying it wasn’t good for me. Then she sat there talking incessantly, going on and on about nothing of importance until I told her to shut the hell up. She said if I don’t start interacting with people again soon, she’ll continue to sit next to me and talk my ear off until I start talking back.

“I’m a grown-ass woman. I don’t need a babysitter,” I snap at her.

“You only have one working arm and one working leg. How the hell do you to expect to stay here by yourself for eight hours?” she points out as though I’ve forgotten about the itchy plaster cast and the cumbersome monstrosity on my knee.

Quinn’s only concerned, but it’s fucking annoying. I’m tired of everyone treating me as though I can’t fend for myself. It’s suffocating, as though I’m on suicide watch. While I can’t say putting myself out of my misery doesn’t seem slightly appealing, I don’t have the nerve, but I do wish she’d just leave me alone sometimes.

“Quinn, I’m fine!” I say, struggling to sit up straight and waving her off. “I have all day tomorrow to rearrange anything I need to. I don’t need someone up my ass twenty-four seven. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been doing just fine this last month.” It is true that I’ve gotten pretty good with the one crutch I can use.

“Seven days of that month you were in a damn hospital bed. They don’t count. You can barely get to the fucking bathroom alone, and you don’t get out of that bed unless you have to. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be all alone,” she says, gesturing wildly, the tone of her voice now matching mine in annoyance.

“So I’ll fucking go to the bathroom before you leave, and I’ll continue to stay in bed all day. The bathroom is less than ten steps from my bed. I can move everything I need to in my room, and I’ll manage until you get home. I
want
to be alone. It’s not the end of the fucking world.” I didn’t ask her to stop her life for me. I didn’t ask for any of this. I don’t need someone to tell me what I can and can’t do.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” she says, skepticism in her voice. Quinn has always been the fun one, and I’ve always been the cautious one. When did the tides turn so much?

“When did you become an overbearing mother? I already have one of those, in case you forgot. There’s a reason she’s not here,” I tell her pointedly, narrowing my eyes in warning. I don’t need another person telling me I’m doing everything wrong, which is exactly why I didn’t want my mother here.

She was bad enough at the hospital…
Why were you working so late? I told you being a reporter wasn’t a good enough career! If you just listened to me, you wouldn’t have needed another job.
Blah, blah, fucking blah. Imagine if she knew about the baby… Christ that would have been the be-all and end-all.

Quinn shook her head in frustration. “When you almost fucking died! That’s when. Don’t like it? Too bad. You scared the hell out of me, and I don’t want to be in the position to see something bad happen to you again,” she said, her tone falling from hostile to sad.

She walks out of my room. A few moments later, I hear the sound of slamming cabinets and glasses clinking from the kitchen. When she comes back, she has the biggest wine glass we own filled to top with a red wine, most likely a cabernet—her favorite. She sits down next to me, leans back against the headboard of my bed, and sighs.

“I can’t go through that again. I’ve watched enough bad shit happen to you. I’ll do whatever I can to never see anything like that happen again.”

I’m grateful for everything Quinn has done for me, but it’s hard to give a shit at this point. She wants to make everything better, as though I’m just going to move on with my life when there’s no healing from this kind of hurt. I lost my child. He’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. Every time I move and feel the pain that has taken over my body, I’m reminded he was ripped away from me. It’s a pain she’ll never be able to empathize with. She’s worried about bad shit happening to me, but there’s nothing God can do to me that would be worse than what he’s already done. I’m living in hell, and it doesn’t get worse than that.

“Nothing bad will happen, Quinn. If anything goes wrong, I can always call you,” I say, grabbing her hand, hoping to placate her into moving on, but of course it doesn’t work.

“We can totally rearrange this room,” she says as she brings her wine glass to her mouth. “If we move the bed over to that wall there, you’ll be as close to the bathroom as we can get you. I’ll stock you up with food and drinks and magazines and whatever else you want before Monday morning. How does that sound?” She suddenly seems more hopeful.

“Sure. Sounds perfect,” I reply, knowing that all the planning and rearranging will give her something to do other than hover over me like a fucking mother hen.

“Okay, do you need anything else before I go?” Quinn asks, pacing. “I filled the basket with water, soda, snacks, and a sandwich—which you need to make sure stays on the ice pack or it’s going to get warm and taste like shit. Your medication’s in there too. I put some mail on your nightstand—magazines and other stuff that’s piled up. Do you have the remote?”

If she doesn’t stop pacing, I’m going to the throw the fucking remote at her head.

“Too many questions for eight o’clock in the morning, Quinn. I’m fine. Go,” I growl, trying to get comfortable again so I can go back to sleep.

“Okay, call me if you need me alright. Or call Tanner. He said he’d be around if you needed anything today.”

Tanner. Always back to Tanner with her.

“When are you going to get it through your thick head that Tanner is no longer a part of my life? My baby is dead, buried in the cold ground. Tanner and I are nothing but a bad memory. Go back to fucking work, and leave me in peace.”

“I almost liked it better when you weren’t talking,” she huffs.

“Quinn…” I warn.

“Okay, okay… Have a good day.”

Ha! A good day? I’m trapped in this fucking bed. Yeah, it’s going to be a great day.

After she goes, I manage to sleep until about ten, which is good. I wake to find about ten messages from Quinn, all asking how I’m doing and why I’m not texting her back.

I tell her I’m fine, that I was sleeping, and not to have a damn heart attack. I haven’t had this much solitude since my mini-coma. I may have bitched about someone always being around and never having alone time, but I’ve kind of gotten used to it, and now it feels weird being by myself.

I grab a few of the magazine that Quinn has piled up and start flipping through them. As I’m skimming the first one, a card falls onto the bed from between its pages. It’s a generic blue envelope with my name and address scrawled across it in girly handwriting—no return address. Strange. I open it to find yet another one of the sympathy cards I’m so damn sick of. I open it to find a message and signature.

My future mother-in-law filled me in, and I understand condolences are in order. Funny how little problems always seem to work themselves out.

-Melissa

Stupid fucking cunt! How dare she refer to my son as a “little problem.” I rip the card to pieces, hoping to feel some of the anger leave my body. I want to throw things, scream, punch her fucking face in, but I’m sure that’s what she wants, and I won’t let that dumb bitch get the best me. Her future mother-in-law? Really? I wonder whether she’s trying to convince me or herself since I don’t give a rat’s ass what Tanner does. I’m not keeping him from her. I wish she would come take him away. I look down at the scraps of paper in my lap before gathering them up and tossing them in the trash can beside my bed. I’m not going to give that bitch or her games another thought. I’ve let her wreak enough havoc in my life with her stupid little messages.

Needing something to distract me while I’m stuck in bed, I decide to catch up on some TV. I’m not normally a TV person, so I google some hot shows.
The Walking Dead
? Nope. I’m not into the whole zombie trend…
Sons of Anarchy
?
Hot bikers and debauchery. Lots of death and destruction. Sounds good to me. Seven seasons to catch up on. That should keep me busy for the week.

By the middle of the third episode, my leg is throbbing, and my head is pounding—probably because I haven’t gotten out of bed yet and I’m buried under a mountain of stress thanks to that twatface, Melissa.

I grab my bottle of pain meds from the nightstand and take one. My stomach growls as soon as the pill and water hit it, and I realize I haven’t eaten anything yet today, which is probably not the best idea when I’m taking such strong pain killers. I grab the sandwich Quinn made and go to town.

Damn, I hadn’t realized I was so hungry. I’m apparently pretty thirsty too because I down a bottle of water and a can of soda in about two seconds.

My pain killers kick in pretty fast, and I suddenly have to pee like a race horse too. I had been planning to see if I could hold out until Quinn got home, but I hadn’t been thinking about that while I was guzzling all that water and soda. Pushing myself up with my good arm, I sit up before swinging my good leg over the side of the bed. It takes a minute but I get my injured leg over the edge as well, and my lovely immobilizer makes it stick straight out. I grab for my crutch, which Quinn left leaning against the wall, perfectly in reach with my new room arrangement.

When I finally get myself to a standing position, the ground moves. I swear to God it does. I feel completely drunk. Making this trek on my own for the first time should be fun. I’m high as a kite, probably shouldn’t have had pain killers for breakfast, but it’s okay. I can do this. I don’t need help. One step at a time. I got that this.

After what seems like an hour and a hundred hobbling steps, I’ve made my way to the toilet. Walking with one crutch, a broken arm, and a banged up knee had seemed pretty feasible in my head, especially with the injuries on opposite sides, but it was much harder than I’d anticipated. Even so, I’ve done it.

Peeing has never felt this good before. I moan as I relieve myself and then break into giggles at my own reaction. I’m grateful my left arm is broken and not my right because it would be so much harder to wipe my ass with my left hand. I laugh even more, picturing the awkwardness. I’m so giddy that I’m sure as soon as my head hits the pillow again, I’ll be down for the count.

I look over at the sink, but washing my hands seems like so much work. What if I get my cast wet? Then it’ll reek, and that’s the last thing I need right now. Deciding to pass on the cast washing, I gimp my way back to my room.