Page 41 of More Than Scars
“Where’s your stuff?” I had a clear shot of the front door from where I sat, and there weren’t any boxes there.
“In our room. Clothes are hung up in the closet, but there wasn’t any space in the dresser, so I moved your stuff around. Hope that’s okay.” He marked something in the notebook, then strung a few chords like he hadn’t just delivered such life-altering news.
Then it hit me. “You moved your stuff into my room?”
“Our room and yes.”
The notes he played came together as the puzzle pieces in my head slotted into place.
My boyfriend moved in with me, and I was taking him to meet my parents tomorrow.
Oh shit, what have I done?
No turning back now, dumbass, but at least you got your man.
Yeah, and hopefully my folks didn’t scare him off.
If they don’t, you’ve always got the chance your sister Twila will.
Fuck. Me. Sideways.
Chapter Seventeen
Bowie
Thrashing, trapped in a web of blankets and darkness, was the worst way to wake up. It reminded me too much of the hospital, the endless stream of bandage changes and wound drains, cool air hit my skin as I struggled free of the blankets and wound upon the floor.
Naked.
Shit.
“Mmm, Bowie, are you okay?”
Double shit. Now I’d woken Pressley.
“Yeah, um, fine, just um, need the bathroom,” I stammered, bolting for the one down the hall instead of theen suiteso I could puke in peace.
Every inch of that nightmare had been way too real, maybe because it reflected the past, all those hands holding me down, keeping me from moving, not just after the wreck, but during the long hours in the hospital when I’d endured more stitches, staples, and bandages than I ever wanted to feel again. Binding, holding me together, even as I’d been freaking the fuck out wanting to see the damage, especially to my shoulder and arm.
Playing.
That’s all I’d been able to think about. My first question to the doctors had been to ask for an estimate of when they thought I could go back to playing my guitar again. Hearing the uncertainty in his voice was bad enough, being told physical therapy first had been worse. No one said that the nightmares that lingered would be the truly horrible part of the whole ordeal.
I knew what had triggered them too. Maybe I should have said something to Pressley before we’d fallen asleep. Instead, I’d pinned him to the bed the way I had after the previous show, when what I’d really needed was for him to hold me until it no longer felt like all of my broken pieces were grinding together and threatening to shatter completely.
Meeting the man who’d caused my wreck had brought back new memories, ones I wished I didn’t have, and then last night, in the middle of a set, two waitresses had collided, and bottles and mugs had flown everywhere. It was the loud, shattering sound of all that glass hitting the ground that had thrown me, though not bad enough that I missed a chord.
Close though.
I’d flinched and somehow managed to suck in a breath and let my hands do what they needed to do before my head got too involved. Glass on the tables, glass on the floor, and glass all over some poor guy’s shoes. It was the shoes that were burned into my brain. All those sparkling shards all over it. Shoes were all I could see when they’d been extracting me from the window. Shoes coveredin glass. The sound of glass crunching beneath boots. Glass in the long strands of my hair as it dangled by my face.
That glass was all bloody.
Lurching, I puked again and clung to the bowl, eyes squeezed shut, shaking. I’d finished the set without freaking the fuck out, but I should have known there would be a freakout in the near future.
What the hell was I thinking, moving into Pressley’s room? He didn’t know about the nightmares. They hadn’t happened since I’d moved in, so I’d….
Taken the coward's way out and hoped that with all the good things happening for me, the bad would stay buried somewhere deep in the back of my mind. Too bad the universe had a way of smashing hope.