Page 3 of Come Back to Me

Certainly not my blood.

“You have to face reality?—”

“Reality is that I’m not defective,” I snarl at him. “Fuck your ableist ass. Your other sons aren’t useless either. Cole has so many gold medals that he needs an insured trophy case, Callan is almost as smart as Einstein, and Colt manages our ranch a damn sight better than you ever have.” With my good hand, I jab my pointer finger at him. “You need to get out before I throw the tray then this fucking overbed table at you.”

“It isn’t my fault you can’t see the truth. I blame that on your mother!”

“Get. Out.”

He scowls, but maybe he reads the sincerity in my expression because he quickly scampers off like the rat he is.

I might be useless in his eyes, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t scared of me.

Thank fuck that hasn’t changed.

I amnotdefective. And neither is anyone with mobility issues. Hell, if this is how disabled people’s families treat them, then I’m ready to declare war on all pieces of shit who don’t deserve to be called ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad.’

My arm might not work, but the doctors didn’t say all hope of regaining mobility in it was gone, and I…

“Fuck.”

I sag into the pillows, features creasing with agony at the unexpected movement in my broken leg that I didn’t brace for. A broken leg that’s more metal pins than bones and cartilage at this point.

His words are like poison.

Heis poison.

I can feel the noxious toxins that he exhales arcing through my veins, seeping into muscles and joints, killing me from the inside out.

“You should call Mrs. Abelman,” I tell myself as I close my eyes. “Mum. Or Colt.” My oldest brother. “Fuck, even Cole would help right about now.” My middle brother might be a dipshit, but he’s better than Tigger for putting a smile on my face. “Hell, Callan—” The youngest. “—would figure out how to get me back on track?—”

I grit my teeth again as common sense goes to war with my every instinct.

Tilting my head back against the pillow, I stare at the ceiling, attempting not to feel like a boat without an oar.

What if they think I’m useless too?

What if my only worth to them was as a decorated combat pilot?

Just as I’m about ready to scream, the nurse comes in.

Gen doesn’t look at me like I’m defective. Her smile hits her eyes, twinkling with a glimmer of appreciation that I’ve grown used to seeing since I hit my fourteenth birthday.

If I lifted my sheet, I know she’d jump right on board, paralyzed arm and busted leg or not.

Gen was the nurse who explained how physio might help when I refused to speak with the physiotherapist on staff after Pops’s initial ‘doom and gloom’ visit two days ago. She was kind but not pitying. Informative and educational.

The urge to flirt her into the sack is there, but what stops it is the letter in her hand.

I recognize the stationery and it hits me like a blow to the gut.

Nobody else uses stationery brighter than the sun—T.

It’s a loud yellow, not daisy in tone, but fluorescent with equally neon pink zebra stripes that I know she drew on there.

Anyone else would think I write to a four-year-old who has access to Mommy’s Sharpies, but years of talking to her tells me otherwise.

Shegracesme with this design.

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