Page 140 of Learning Curve

And what has all of that gotten him? A daughter who will probably be in a wheelchair for the rest of her life.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt more worthless than I do right now.

My dad ends his call, and when he turns around, he sees that I’m awake. Thanks to all the feelings I’m having with literally no way to run away, I’ve been making excuses to sleep—or at least feign it—a lot. “Have a good nap?” he asks, his voice way too jovial for a man who’s currently trying to figure out how to keep his job while his daughter is in the hospital. “It’s getting late. I thought you might end up sleeping right through the night.”

I can’t even answer his question, my mind too focused on all the things I’m currently putting him through.

“I’m so sorry, Dad.”

His brow furrows. “Sorry? For what?”

“For this,” I say, and my lip quivers with unshed emotion. “For being here. For making your life harder. For all the times you’ve had to sacrifice I don’t even know what to pay for training and gymnastics and everything else that comes with a daughter who wanted to be a competitive cheerleader.”

“No, Scottie.” My dad is by my side in an instant. “Don’t do that. Don’t say that. You got injured, sweetheart. It was just one of those freak things that no one could’ve prevented. I’m thankful that it wasn’t worse. That it wasn’t life-ending. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I would’ve lost you.” He grabs my hand. “You’re my daughter, my little Scottie B. I love you, and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

Tears stream from my cheeks, and my dad wraps me up in big hug. “We’ll get through this, okay?” he says into my ear. “You’re strong, Scottie. And I know this is hard and I know it feels like life handed you a bag of shit, but you can do this. You can get through this.”

I nod even though I don’t feel a single ounce of strength. Maybe if this year had been easier, I wouldn’t feel so weak. Maybe I’d be ready to fight.

But I feel all used up and broken now, and I don’t know if I have any strength left.

“You good?” he asks, clearly uncomfortable sitting in the emotion. My dad is the kindest, most well-meaning human. But he’s not in touch with any of the feelings that start this deep, and I doubt he ever will be.

I force the fakest freaking smile to my lips. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “You hungry?” he asks. “Wren and Finn ran to a burger joint across the street to get us some dinner. The nurses brought this tray about an hour ago for you, but it’s meatloaf.” He makes a disgusted face. “Personally, I don’t think I’d test hospital cafeteria meatloaf, but that’s just me.”

“I wouldn’t mind some fruit. Maybe a yogurt,” I acquiesce, naming off things that seem the least likely to affect my stomach. I have to think twice about everything I put inside my body because I currently have zero control when it comes out.

I can’t believe this is my life now.

The mere thought makes me want to break down all over again, but thankfully, my dad doesn’t notice.

“I’ll run down to the cafeteria and grab you a few things, okay?”

I nod. “Thanks, Dad.”

He presses another kiss to my forehead, and I swallow hard against the emotion clawing at my chest. I’m trying to be strong. Trying to hold it together. But it’s hard. So damn hard.

Once my dad is gone on his cafeteria mission, I grab my phone off the bedside table to give myself something to do other than think. There are so many notifications, it’s almost overwhelming just trying to see them all.

Texts from Kayla and Tonya and a few other girls from my team.

Texts from Julia and Ace and Blake and all four of Finn’s brothers and sister. Texts from Finn’s new brothers and sister.

Texts from Coach Jordan and a few of the girls in my dorm and my RA.

Missed calls from aunts and cousins on my dad’s side of the family.

Instagram and TikTok and Snapchat notifications.

Texts from my mother, all of which I delete immediately.

Everyone is sweet and kind and trying to show me support, but the reality is undeniable. The girl they knew isn’t going to be the same anymore, and the things we did together won’t be easily possible, if at all, for a very long time.

I have to ask for help to turn in bed, go to the bathroom, and put on clothes. I can’t wash by myself or jump up to grab a door if someone needs it held open. I can’t walk or run or wrap my legs around Finn’s waist if I want to, and no one is ready to face that reality yet.

Nothing in my life is like it used to be.

---