Page 666 of One More Kiss

Chapter7

The exciting rushof getting to leave the four walls of the hospital overshadows the lingering worry in the back of my mind. My neuro therapist warned me and Milo of the possibility of post-traumatic stress yesterday, prescribing anxiety medication for me just in case.Assuming I won’t need it, I had my mom put it with my other medication.

And at first, I’m fine. I laugh when Milo lifts me into the Range Rover he picked up last night. The new car smell lingers on the black leather seats. Kissing me on the temple, he steps back to the outside of the door, closing it gently.

Ten minutes into the drive, we’re laughing and singing along to the “Millennium Hits” station he found while scanning through the satellite radio. Without warning, I find it hard to catch my breath. Perspiration leaves my palms and the back of my neck feeling clammy while my stomach does multiple flips.

“Milo, I need you to pull over,” I say with urgency.

Looking over at me, his face immediately covers in concern. “Lochlyn, what’s wrong?”

“I need you to pull the fucking car over!” I scream as I feel the contents of my stomach rising higher with every passing second.

Milo pulls into the breakdown lane, flipping on the blinking hazard lights. Whipping the door open, the cool March air hits me like a hard smack in the face. Using every ounce of upper arm strength, I lift my body up and position myself so I’m facing toward the door. Leaning over just in time, I heave my breakfast onto the concrete below.

And, of course, the universe decides now is a suitable time to pull another sick joke on me. Mere moments after we pull over, blue and red flashing lights pull up behind us. Chilly air hits my back as Milo opens his window to talk to the police officer. At this point, I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. So instead, I take the twenty second pause between stomach lunges and steady myself. Using my right hand, I brace myself in the door frame and continue to leave remnants of the blueberry granola parfait on the ground outside.

“Hi, is everything alright?” the unfamiliar voice behinds me asks, but within seconds follows up with, “Hey, Milo. Oh God. Is that...is that Lochlyn? Is she okay?”

By now, everyone in town surely knows what happened on this stretch of highway. With Milo’s social media updates and the surge of my own following, it was no surprise the officer knew who I was after recognizing Milo.

Catching only bits and pieces, I put together Milo telling the police officer that we’re heading home, and that it’s my first car ride since the accident. He all but begs him for professional discretion.

“I was working the night of the accident,” the officer tells Milo. “We’ve been following your updates, and we’re all so glad that she’s going to be okay. If you need anything, you just give us a call at the station.”

Exhaling, I close my eyes and tip my head onto the black leather headrest behind me and then slowly turn to face forward again. Milo nods in appreciation as the officer pats the exterior of the Range Rover and walks back to his SUV.

“Let’s get you home, babe,” Milo says as he places his hand on the steering wheel with one hand and reaches for me with the other. “Sorry. The ‘babe’ thing just comes out naturally. I know that must be weird for you. I don’t think about it, but I’ll work on it.”

“It’s okay,” I assure him. “Maybe it’ll help. I think you should try to be as normal as possible. I’ll let you know if something bothers me.”

The truth is, even though I can’t remember that I already was, I kind of like the thought of being Milo’s “babe.”

* * *

“I can’t.I can’t do it.”

It’s been a week since I left the hospital, and nothing but my location has changed. If anything, things are worse because at the hospital, I still had hope. Pulling myself up and using the metal walker had been something I achieved the third day of physical therapy, but when it came time to move forward, to just push one foot in front of the other and move, I couldn’t do it. I tried so hard, every day, and something just wasn’t clicking. At this point, I would be content with a shuffle, I just want to move on my own.

“Yeah, I don’t buy that bullshit for a second.”

Three weeks ago, the crooked smile and Milo’s teasing tone from across the room would have been taken as a challenge. But I don’t want the push. Right now, I want to curl up in a ball and cry… and I can’t do that because I can’t move my fucking leg.

I’ve fallen and smacked my face and my chin on this damn walker three times in the last hour and half. The only thing getting me through is that there are only five minutes left. Five more minutes and I can go back to my room and cry.

From two to three every day, my physical therapist comes, and we head to Milo’s workout room, which has been dually serving as my PT room. The last few days, Milo has been joining us, pretending to do his own thing while I’ve been doing my therapy. He doesn’t realize I catch him stopping when he’s mid-run on the treadmill or freezing at the speed bag when it’s time for me to get up on the walker and try to make a move. I know he wants to believe that moment is coming and that he wants to be here when it does. There’s nothing more I want than to prove him right, but I just can’t. I can’t do it.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Says the guy with two perfectly functioning legs. That’s fucking rich, Milo.”

“Oh, you’re mad? That’s cute, babe,” he taunts playfully from the speed bag he’s been hitting, clearly not getting that I’m not in the mood for this. “Why don’t you just come here and tell me how mad you are. Come on. Let’s fight.”

Making a “bring it” motion with the black boxing gloves covering his hands, he pushes his tongue to his cheek and raises his eyebrows expectantly. Smirking, his eyes light up as he crosses his arms and stands there, watching me, waiting for me to make my move.

Gripping the walker, I will myself to just make one step. One small step. Push one foot in front of the other. And I can’t. My foot stays frozen in place, like it’s cemented to floor below me.

“Fuck off, Milo.”

The warm, salty taste of my streaming tears fall onto my lips as I glare at him, giving him the chance to say something before losing my shit on him. Grateful doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel about everything he has done and given up for me since the accident, but how does he not see how hard this is for me? How dare he stand there, dancing around, teasing me, when all I want to do is run up to him and kiss his stupid face?

---