Page 53 of Double Trouble

I stand in a swamp of the words he threw at me.Responsible party, gambling with her safety…

Maddie shifts, the rustle of sheets against her hospital gown filling the silent room. “Tanner—”

“Don’t.” I shake my head hard, pinching the bridge of my nose. “He’s right.” I was stupid, inconsiderate, and I played a risk with Maddie and no person who loved her would do that. His words eat through me, taking chunks out of vital organs. “He’s right,” I say again, pushing past Candace and into the hallway. Pete rises from the wall he’s leaning against, but I don’t want to start anything.

I give him a solitary nod, acknowledging that I hear him, I get it, Iagree. I’m no good for Mad, and what I did proves it.

I push out of the hospital doors, taking a deep breath of late August air. I yank my phone from my pocket and click on Google search.

How much does a Sony camcorder sell for?

Drugs really help a mood. A lot, I’m quickly finding out.

The longer I’m out of the hospital, the gloomier I get. I’ve worn the same clothes for about a week. Shower time is a hassle with having to stick my leg out and hose myself down, so I’ve been relying on dry shampoo for the most part and Candace for balance.

My memory foam mattress is getting to know me pretty well.

I crunch on a baby carrot, the bag resting by my hip, my head propped on my pillows. My laptop sits on my stomach, a sneer curling around the carrot as I watch the judges select the boarders for this year’s competition. I don’t know why I’m watching. Masochist, I suppose.

I was just hours away from sending my video and application, and I had to break my damn leg. I chuck a half-eaten carrot at the screen when the announcer says, “There’s our line up! Looking forward to a tight competition in October.”

Eight weeks. Eight weeks of no boarding. I get the cast off a week after the competition, and even if I got it off earlier, everyone and their mom has an opinion about how soon I should jump on a board.

I close the lid with a slam and toss it to the empty side of my bed where it joins a myriad of wrappers from my week of wallowing. Even when Tanner’s here, we cuddle in silence. He blames himself, and when I tell him to knock it off or leave, he leaves. Then I get pissed and yell at Pete for all the things he said to Tanner at the hospital.

And holy hell, the pity looks. I’m so tired of the pity looks. Every person who walks in the room gives me that frown and the “how you doin’, hun?” like I’m incapable of taking care of myself. Sure, I need help showering, and as embarrassing as it is, Candace doesn’t seem fazed by my naked body. And yeah, I have a damn splint running up over my knee, and I can’t put any weight on that leg whatsoever. I’m getting really good at crutches and using my butt to scoot everywhere.

The cast goes on hopefully a week from Monday, and it’s there for six weeks. I’m living in my own personal hell.

An itch crawls across my ankle, and a hiss slips through my teeth. I can’t scratch the damn thing, and it’ll bug me for at least a half an hour.

A rap against my bedroom door pulls my attention, and I let out a hefty sigh. Great, another pity visitor. Who will it be this time? Pete? Candace? Tanner?

I hope it’s Tanner.

“Yeah, come in,” I growl, wincing as I push against the mattress to a sitting position. I stuff a pillow under the splint, right under my knee, elevating my foot so it’s not touching anything.

The door creaks open, and my body jerks in surprise. “Dad?”

“Hi Madison.”

“What are you doing here?” I jut my gaze to the pain killers I have sitting on my nightstand. I take the bottle and shove it in my drawer.

He stops in his tracks, frowning at my haste to hide my medicine. “I wasn’t going to take them.”

“Just easing the temptation for you.”

He runs a hand over his salt and pepper beard, a habit Pete picked up from him. He looks sober today… and rough. His hand shakes against his jawline, a watery wall in his light brown eyes. A permanent worry line creases his forehead, his already wrinkled face looking more worn and stressed.

“You mind?” he asks, gesturing to the edge of the bed. I shake my head, pushing aside my laptop and food wrappers so he can sit. The mattress sinks with his weight.

I don’t remember the last time my father sat in my bedroom. He’s never seen this place, never visited before. I imagine the look on Pete’s face when he opened the door and let out an involuntary laugh.

Dad tilts his head at the outburst but doesn’t ask about it. His eyes skate over my broken leg, his frown deepening. Wow, the pity look from Dad. That’s a first.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, crossing my arms. I’m far from fine, but he’s long lost the privilege to pity me. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Partly.” His voice is low, cracked with age and drug abuse. He tears his eyes from my leg and looks around my room. It’s a disaster, laundry spilling from my basket and hanging from my dresser drawers. But our home growing up was much worse, so I don’t apologize for it.

---