When Sparks Fly

Declan smiles for what seems like the first time in days. “Looks like your appetite is coming back.”

“Hanging with you and the guys always makes me hungry.”

My buoyant mood takes a graceless swan dive when I have to use the bathroom. I’m getting better at the whole thing, and the awkward has come down a level or seven since we’ve done the routine so many times now.

It’s also a lot easier now that I’m only wearing long nightshirts and I’ve given up on underwear and pants until the pain is more manageable and I’m strong enough to do it on my own.

I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror—something I’ve tried not to pay much attention to since I have two mostly healed, but still discolored black eyes. Green and yellow bruises color my cheeks from when the airbag deployed. On the upside, my nose isn’t broken.

I reach up and touch my hair. I haven’t bathed since I’ve been home, apart from running a wet washcloth over my exposed limbs. My hair is disgusting, and I’m sure I must stink.

I’m worried about how difficult the whole bathing situation is going to be. And how much help I’m going to need from Declan to be able to manage it. I don’t know how long I sit there, but eventually Declan knocks. “Ave, everything okay in there? You need some help?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you ready for me, or…” He trails off.

“Just give me a minute.” I’m even more horrified when tears of frustration prick at my eyes. I try to stifle them, but they keep coming.

“Ave? Are you sure everything is okay? I’m coming in.” He throws open the door. My hair is pulled up in a messy ponytail so I can’t hide my face behind it, not that I would want to, considering how greasy it is. His eyes go wide. “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Does something hurt? Do I need to call the doctor? I’ll call the doctor.” He scrambles for his phone.

I hold up my hand. “I don’t need the doctor.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“I need to fucking bathe, that’s what’s wrong!” I snap.

“Oh. Okay. I can set that up for you. I’ll get everything ready and it’ll be fine,” he says gently, as if he’s speaking to an upset toddler. Which is pretty much how I’m feeling.

And I go off, because I’m frustrated and tired and I hate this. “It’s not going to be fine, though, is it, Declan? I can’t get into the tub on my own. I can’t do anything on my own. I can barely pee on my own. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?” I motion to my broken, beat-up body.

“I know this is hard for you—”

“Do not tell me you know how this is. You don’t. I hate this! I hate being dependent on someone else to take care of my basic needs. I can’t make my own cereal because I can’t stand up long enough to get a bowl. I can’t make myself a sandwich. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t!” I slam my fist down on the counter.

“Avery, stop, you’re going to hurt your hand.” He rushes forward and grabs my wrist before I can slam my fist down again.

“Let me go!” I scream, completely irrational, out of control mentally, emotionally, because my physical body isn’t mine to command right now.

I try to wrench free, but his grip tightens. “I’m sorry, Ave. I’m so sorry.”

“It wouldn’t be like this if you weren’t such a selfish fuck boy.” I spit the words at him and they have the intended effect, piercing him like knives. I’m angry and lashing out. Aggravated because I’m confined and he’s not.

He drops to his knees, bringing my clenched fist to his forehead as he bows forward. “I know. I fucked up, Ave, and I’m so sorry. I made a really shitty mistake, and I wish I could take it back. Every day, every time I look at you, every time I see you in pain, I know it’s my fault, and I hate myself for it. I should’ve gotten my ass out of bed and gone with you. I should’ve made sure you had my SUV. I shouldn’t have gone out. I shouldn’t have brought anyone home.”

“Yeah, well, should’ve doesn’t get me out of this mess, does it?” I yank my hand free, pissed off, wishing I could stop my mouth from running, but wanting to inflict some kind of pain on Declan that matches my own. And I’m succeeding. That it gives me some sense of vindication makes me feel horrible.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I hate that I did this to you. You’re my best friend, and I love you, and it kills me to see you like this.”

“Why? Why did you have to go out and find a hookup when you knew we had a drive ahead of us the next morning?” It doesn’t make sense. We were looking forward to the trip, and then he went and screwed it all up for both of us.