Page 74 of Brazen Defiance (Brazen Boys #4)

Jansen

T he therapist keeps preaching patience, like that’s something I’m good at. Patience, relaxation, regular sleep, exercise, and a balanced diet.

Like those aren’t all things I’ve always been working on. Although the drugs are new.

They are doing something, but I’m still unsure how I feel about them. At least I can get up and do things again. It makes everyone less freaked out if you can follow the conversation. Or at least feel well enough to fake paying attention.

I’ve spent hours planning out an epic cat wall for Fluffington, focusing on something concrete that I’ll be able to do once I’m out of here.

But it’s not enough. As more of my brain turns back on, the buzz has come back, louder than ever.

Only my body is still sludge, unable to do more than a few things before the weight of my limbs has me collapsing like some sickly Victorian child.

I miss Clara.

I miss her so much that I’m struggling to talk about anything else in therapy. They want me to learn coping skills. I just want my girl back.

At least we have private rooms here. And the other patients are mostly cool. It’s not where I want to be, though, so the sooner these meds do whatever the doctors are hoping they’ll do, the better.

Walker and RJ came yesterday, and Walker used some interesting turns of phrase to tell me he did a successful lift for Clara, so now she has a phone. RJ has been scanning our fake university discussion board for her first message, but nothing’s shown up yet.

What would I give to break out of this place and just go check on her? Those bruises were so dark they were practically black. And she smiled, like it wasn’t the end of the world. Like she hadn’t taken those blows so I could keep lying to my family.

We should have stayed gone. At least then we were together.

Now, she and Trips are in a glamorous jail, Walker and RJ are free but hamstrung, and I’m in a prison of my making.

It makes me wish I’d gotten a different brain. The thought is immediately followed by the voice of the group therapist reminding me not to get pissed about this. But I’m not the angry one. That’s part of the problem.

I’m either ready to ride the clouds or I collapse into a pile of mud.

And I want my Pegasus back, please and thank you.

My mind a mess, I go to the meditation room, figuring an attempt at tai chi might help. Maybe if I move my body, it’ll trick my brain into letting it do what it usually does. I can already feel my strength leaching out from my inactivity, and with what we have coming, that’s the last thing we need.

I make it through a few forms before my body gives out, leaving me slumped against the wall. Annoyed at my whole system not working the way it should, I wrestle with the window, prying it open before I remember that nothing in this place should open, especially a third-floor window.

Panic lights my nerves, and I’m almost happy to just be feeling anything besides emptiness and lethargy. Waiting for someone to come in and yell at me, I stick my head out, breathing in the scent of wet concrete and earth, the aftermath of the storm that rolled through last night.

Five minutes pass, and I sit on the sill, arms braced inside, feet dangling outside, a familiar swoop in my stomach bringing a hint of joy to my heart. “I want this,” I whisper to no one as I stare out over the scrubby trees and mostly empty parking lot.

Another five minutes pass, and no one comes to yell at me. A flutter of something bigger sinks into my guts. Rolling backwards, just to see if I can catch myself, I land crouched, facing the best news I’ve had in a while.

Sliding the window closed, I leave the room.

For now.

Only time will tell how much patience I actually have.