Fighting Our Way (Broken Tracks 2)

I pull in a shaky breath, nodding slightly. “I can’t promise, but I’ll… I’ll try.”

“Good.” He pulls his hands away from my face and stands up to his full height, doing his suit jacket button up. “I need to head back to work.” He steps around the bed before stopping halfway to the door. He spreads his lips into an easygoing grin before lifting his hand in a wave and pulling open the door, murmuring something to someone outside.

I keep my gaze focused on the door for several minutes before it opens fully and Nate steps inside, his lips pulled into a grin much the same as Tris left with.

He rubs his hands together. “I heard it’s red Jell-O in the cafeteria today.”

I open my mouth to reply to him, set on trying like Tris said. Nate is acting normal, like it doesn’t matter if my body isn’t working like it should be. But one flick of his gaze to my legs has my walls slamming back down and I turn my face away from him, focusing on that goddamn painting once again.

I listen to my dad and Nate as they discuss the latest baseball score, the sounds of their voices melding together until they almost become one.

Mom sits by my side, her hands busy as she crochets a blanket for the bottom of my hospital bed to keep my legs warm. “You won’t know when they’re cold,” she told me two days ago when she brought the yarn back to start it.

For two days it’s felt like I’ve been in a dark hole with no light in sight. The walls are closing in on me, the ceiling getting closer and closer to my head. I can’t keep listening to the same conversations and staring at the same things. Nothing is changing—nothing.

“Knock knock!” A woman’s chirpy voice sounds through the door before it’s pushed open and her face appears. I don’t move an inch as all conversation stops and everyone’s attention is fully focused on her. “I’m Traci, with an I.” Her deep-red-painted lips lift into a welcoming smile. “I’m your physiotherapist.”

I blink as she steps forward, my gaze trailing over the navy yoga pants she’s wearing with the same color polo shirt.

She holds her hand out to me as she comes to a stop next to Mom and Dad. “It’s lovely to meet you, Be—” I snap my mouth open, ready to correct her but she beats me to it. “Sorry... I mean, Amelia.”

A small smile lifts up the side of my mouth at her correction and I find I have some kind of instant connection with her.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I answer, my voice hoarse and croaky as I ignore the eyes I feel on me. For the last eight weeks I’ve barely spoken to the three people who mean the most to me in this world. In theory, they should be the people I want to talk to, but I don’t.

Control. It’s all about control. I may not be able to control how or when—or if—my body heals, but I can decide who I will and won’t talk to.

“Are you ready for your first session?” she asks, putting her hands on her hips. Not once has she acknowledged anyone else in the room.

When the nurses come in to check my vitals, or doctors come in to tell me what my progress has been—or lack of progress—they always look at my dad, my mom, or Nate.

For the first time since before the fall, I feel ready to do something other than sit here all day. I find myself nodding and as soon as I do, my dad stands up.

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“Nope,” Traci replies, shaking her head and finally turning her dark-blue eyes toward him. “The sooner we start, the better. She’s had her cast off for two weeks, and apart from daily muscle exercises, she hasn’t used many of her muscles. She’s losing strength every day.”

“I agree,” Nate voices, coming to stand on the other side of me. “You should start as soon as you can.”

I bite my bottom lip but reach my hand out toward him, thanking him silently for the show of support. His warm hand grasps a hold of mine and he squeezes. My heartbeat goes wild in my chest, my pulse skyrocketing. I haven’t touched him for what feels like a lifetime, and right now, I want to simultaneously let go and hold on tighter.

The room is silent for several beats before Mom places her crocheting into her bag and

stands up, hooking her arm through Dad’s.

“Come on, Carl. Let’s go and get some lunch.”

“Jan—”

“Let’s go.”

I turn my head toward them, watching as Mom narrows her eyes and has a silent conversation with Dad.

He huffs long and low before reaching over and planting a soft kiss on my forehead, pulling back and keeping his gaze connected to mine for a second. Spinning around, he leads Mom out of the room, leaving only me, Nate, and Traci.

“Right!” She claps her hands and blinds me with her wide smile. “Let’s start with you getting from the bed into a chair.”

I swallow against the lump forming in my throat, pushing back the tears springing to the surface as she turns around and pushes a wheelchair into the room.