“I really do feel fine.” But even as the words came out of my mouth, I felt like I might cry. I needed to get out of here.
“Sometimes the symptoms sneak up on you,” she said gently. “I just want you to be aware that having some anxiety or other issues after all this is perfectly normal. So read the sheet and know the signs. If you ever want to talk, just text me.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it. But I really need to get to work now.”
Dr. Fisher arched an eyebrow, but at least she let me go.
I called Fiona from the car on the ride home.
“Hannah.” She was clearly sobbing.
“I’m so sorry.”
Fiona blew her nose but kept crying. “You told me. You warned me, but I didn’t move fast enough.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my own face. There was so much pain in her voice. “This wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done.”
“She wanted my company.” Her voice shook. “And Jim paid for that.”
I felt helpless. “Can I come over? Can I help with the girls?”
“My mom’s here. I’ll—I’ll talk to you later.”
I went to say “okay,” but she’d already hung up. And really, what was the point of using that stupid word today?
My friend’s world had fallen apart. There was no such thing as “okay.”
I wrapped my arms around myself, forcing back the tears. Instead, I pictured Li Na Zhao’s face. I pictured punching it, hard, again and again.
Because angry felt better than sad. Hell yes, it did.
So I kept the image in my mind all the way home.
Chapter 8
Wes
I cursed myself for keeping my early morning appointment as I glared at Ashley, my physical therapist. “You’re not seriously making me do this.”
She crossed her arms. “Come on, tough guy. You can totally do this.”
“I know—because I’ve already done it three times.”
“So do it again. No big deal, right?”
I blew out a deep breath and looked at the mat. She wanted me to hold the plank position for as long as I could. Sweat ran in rivulets down my chest, and my arms and legs were already shaking. Over the past couple of weeks, Ashley had been coming to the house, running me through various exercises down in Gabe’s massive home gym. Our goal was to get me stronger, strong enough to tolerate walking on my own and to increase my muscle mass.
My ultimate goal, of course, was to kick Li Na Zhao’s ass.
“Get going,” Ashley grunted.
I might have to kick Ashley’s ass, too.
I mentally referred to her as Evil Spawn. Even though she was young, dark-skinned, dreadlocked, and perpetually dressed in blue scrubs and running shoes, Ashley reminded me of Sergeant Dell, my drill sergeant from basic training. Sgt. Dell was pasty-white and paunchy, with graying hair, in his mid-fifties—but like Ashley, he’d been crusty and ruthless. He’d also been utterly convinced and openly vocal about his prediction we would all fail.
Sergeant Dell motivated me. I felt the same way about Ashley—she pissed me off, so I wanted to prove something to her.
“I’m waiting,” she said, her muscular arms folded against her chest. “And last time I checked, I wasn’t getting any younger. You aren’t, either.”