Page 21 of Giving Grace

I’m living in an apartment designed for someone who’s disabled.

Because that’s what I am now.

Who I am.

Cry me a fuckin’ river. When you gonna finally get tired of feelin’ sorry for yourself, Ranger? When you gonna just accept the fact that you’re broken and get the fuck on with it?

Get on with what?

I almost ask the question out loud.

Probably would have if I wasn’t so afraid of the answer.

Instead, I lean against the sink because I refuse to use the chair someone put in here to struggle my way out of my clothes, and avoiding my reflection in the mirror, hobble my way to the shower.

Thirty minutes later, I’m back in my bedroom, towel slung around my hips, when I hear my front door open and close.

Grace.

It’s stupid but she’s the first thought that pops into my head. That she came back, and it has me hurrying, yanking on the first pair of pants I can find before heading for the door.

There’re no hallways in this apartment. It’s something I found weird at first but now realize it’s by design. That like the wide doorways and lowered light switches, it makes the entire space accessible, so when I open my bedroom door, I can see directly into the living room and the kitchen beyond it.

Henley is standing at the island, back to me, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder. “Mother, you’re being ridicu—” Whatever our mother said to interrupt her tenses up her shoulders like someone stuck a knife in her back. “For the last time—I will not be flying to Paris, or anywhere else for that matter, to buy a wedding dress, so you can call Jean Luc-whatever the hell his name is and tell him I found a designer, right here in Fenway.” She sighs, lifting a hand to drop her forehead into it. “Because I did, mother—Anton. Yes, I am serious—” Another pause, followed by a sigh. “I’m hanging up, I don’t have time for this right now… because I’m at Ryan’s—that’s enough.” Her voice hardens. Her tone goes cold. “I really am hanging up now.”

Now it’s my turn to feel like someone just stuck a knife between my shoulder blades because whatever our mother said to make Henley angry, I’d bet my good leg it was about me. I watch as she drops the phone away from her ear and jabs at the screen before tossing it on the counter where it bounces into the prescription bottle I left sitting there last night. Hearing the pills rattle around inside their plastic cage makes my leg ache.

Like she can read my mind, Henley picks them up and, turning the bottle slowly like she’s reading the label.

“You can count them if you want.”

When I say it, Henley turns toward the sound of my voice and lets out a yelp, fumbling the bottle. It hits the counter before bouncing off its edge to roll across the kitchen floor.

“What? No—” She gives me another quick, near frantic look over her shoulder, her face and neck erupting in ugly red blotches that I remember from when we were kids. It almost always signaled embarrassment and guilt. “I just…” She stoops to chase the pill bottle across the floor. “I didn’t know you were here. I thought—” Catching it against the backstop of the refrigerator, she straightens herself to give me a sunny smile, flashing me a set of perfect, white teeth. It makes her a stranger. Seem foreign somehow. “I thought you were still staying at Patrick’s.”

“Got crowded.” I cock my head a bit before pushing my shoulder off the doorframe to shuffle my way into the kitchen. “Your turn.” I skirt the island, heading toward the sleek red machine I’m assuming is a coffee pot nestled between an automatic can opener and a toaster oven. “What are you doing here, Hen?” I prompt her when she doesn’t answer me right away.

“I…” I hear the rattle of my pill bottle behind me as she sets it on the island between us. “I was on my way to the game and thought I’d swing by to drop off some last-minute comfort items.”

“Comfort items?” I chuckle, tossing a look at her over my shoulder. “What the fuck is a comfort item?”

“Uh…” Her voice drifts closer. “Nothing important,” she says, her profile easing into my peripheral as she moves to stand next to me. “Just some magazines. A few pair of socks. A house plant.”

Feeling like I’m being evaluated, I do my best to ignore the fact that she’s standing a few feet away and watching every move I make. “Sounds like shit you’d bring your grandmother in a nursing home.” Rolling the dice, I reach for the cabinet directly above the machine and feel ridiculously relieved to find it crammed with coffee mugs. Pulling one off the shelf, I stick it under the machine before lifting the lever to open it. “Quilters Quarterly? Cross Stitch Bonanza?” I tease her while I give the coffee pod caddy next to the machine a spin. When she doesn’t laugh, I pick one at random and feed it into the machine before looking up to find her staring at me, gaze trained on my torso and the decade’s worth of battle scars scattered across it.

I forgot to put on a shirt.

“Are you gonna cry again?” I hate the way I sound when I say it. Angry. Accusatory. Like she’s the reason I spent the last ten years of my life catching bullets and collecting stab wounds. “Because if—”

“That prescription is from January.” She interrupts me, her tone just as angry and heavy with accusation as mine.

“Yeah.” Looking away from her, I slam the machine closed and stab the button with a picture of a coffee cup on it. “So what?”

“So, it’s April and it’s almost full.” She ducks her head a little, putting her face in my direct line of sight. “How are managing your pain?”

For a second all I can do is stare at her. That’s how stunned I am. How angry. I take a step back, moving further down the counter. Away from her, putting space between us. “What the fuck are you asking me, Hen?” I’m trying to pretend she’s accusing me of using street drugs or maybe drinking to self-medicate but that’s not what she’s saying.

“The question is a pretty simple one—” She leans over to snatch my near full bottle of oxy off the island and holds it out between us like they’re something I’ve never seen before. “if you’re not taking your meds, then how are you managing your pain?”

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