Wildcard: Volume One
Page 17
Oh shit. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could take back my words.
“No. I told you not even five minutes ago that my mom died. D
o you even listen? I’m beginning to question our pending friendship, Ryder.”
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I need a verbal filter sometimes. I’m sorry about your mum,” I mumble, not sure what else I can say.
“Why? Did you kill her?”
I laugh. “No. I don’t have to be responsible for something to feel sorry. Believe it or not, I am capable of feeling empathy.”
“Yeah, well, shit happens. I loved my mother, and I wish she was still here, but I can’t change life, can I?”
“I guess not.”
“Right. Anyway, I think you need to make more of an effort with your family,” she announces. “Email? Come on. You’ve spent hours over the last week talking on the phone to a complete stranger, but all your folks get is a lousy email when you’re out of town?”
I smile. God, she’s sassy. I love her boldness. “You’re very opinionated, you know. I see where Jake gets it from now,” I comment, amused.
“No, I’ve just learned to value what I have, is all. Do something nice for your family. Something unexpected.”
“Fine. I better go anyway. Can I call you later?”
She laughs. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t.”
Chapter Nine
If I have to sit through one more fucking episode of this shit I’ll kill myself.
I grab the remote and switch channels. French daytime TV is worse than every other country put together. I can’t even understand the shit and I know it’s bad. I settle on what I think is a talk show. France’s answer to David Letterman. Or Ellen.
Pushing the sheets off me, I slither to the side of the bed and let my feet fall over the edge. My toes touch the cold floor and I sigh. Just feeling the ground beneath me is fucking amazing.
Apparently I have a few more days of being bedridden before I can attempt to move around. But I decide fuck that, because I’m so much more qualified than my team of doctors and physiotherapists. Besides, it’s been ten days now. It was bad enough pissing in a bottle, there’s no way I’m going to take a dump in a bedpan and then hand it to my mother to clean up.
No. Fucking. Way.
Using my hands, I push myself into somewhat of an upright position. I hold my breath, trying hard to ignore the excruciating pain that’s radiating up my back. In the back of my mind I know this is a bad idea, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing myself off the bed and onto my unsteady feet.
“Fuuuuck,” I growl, just managing to grab hold of the back of the chair for support.
“Ryder, what the hell are you doing?” Hailey appears out of nowhere. She couches beside me, her expression panicked. “What should I do?” she cries, resting her hand on my back.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Taking her hand, I swivel my body around, just far enough for me to collapse face down onto the bed. Fucking ouch!
“What the hell were you doing?” she asks, breathless. I mutter an incoherent response into my pillow as she helps me lift my legs back onto the mattress. “What if you had slipped? I’m home alone. There is no way I could’ve helped you up.”
“I was trying to get to the toilet,” I mutter, easing myself onto my side.
Fuck. I was so frustrated. I was sick and tired of lying on this damn bed. I was sick of being looked after. I was sick of being stuck in a country where I couldn’t even watch the damn TV. I was sick of everything.
“You should have called out for me. I would’ve helped you with a pan.” She speaks softly. Great. She feels sorry for me.
“You’re my kid sister. I refuse to let you help me,” I say flatly.
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “You have a better idea? Because doing it yourself worked out so great for you,” she adds sarcastically.
“Hailey,” I growl, my face flushing. “Just go.”