Page 35 of Only With Me

When a piece of farm equipment fell on his legs, it cut his upper thigh so deep, it was irreparable. They had to amputate to avoid infection, so sometimes when the phantom pain is at its worst, it feels like his leg is being crushed. Almost like his brain is having a flashback of the accident and since it doesn’t know that part of his limb is gone, it sends nerve signals to alert another part of his brain that there’s pain.

But since the physical part of the body doesn’t exist, narcotics and other pain medications don’t work.

“Daddy, you okay?”

He shakes his head, purses his lips, and smacks his stump a few times. Sometimes that works to startle the nerves, but oftentimes, he has to suffer through it until it goes away.

“Finish eatin’. I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” he grumbles.

I hate seeing him suffer.Hateit with a passion.

Mom and I continue eating so he doesn’t feel awkward having us wait for him. But instead, the room stays silent.

When his accident happened, we dropped everything to help him through his “new normal.” I was only twelve and took it hard because I had never seen him so helpless. Mom was a wreck but was trying to remain strong for the rest of us. Delilah and I were left alone a lot so Mom could stay at the hospital with him. Besides my own incident, it was the scariest moment of my life being told my dad had a bad accident and they weren’t sure if he’d survive.

Once he was home to recover, he quickly fell into a depressive state because he was bed bound and physically limited. For someone who’d worked every day for the past thirty-five years, he didn’t adjust well to it. He helped support the household and felt pride in his hard work, but then had to sit and do nothing while the rest of us did everything for him.

Years later, and he still hates every second of it. The accident took away his independence. His ability to drive—although there are ways to alter a car, him being on so many types of medication makes it unsafe for him to operate heavy machinery. It took away his ability to take care of us in the way he was used to.

“How long do you work today?” Mom asks, breaking the tension.

“Until three, but I’m gonna visit Piper after,” I respond. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Dad’s only watched me compete a few times. Usually if Delilah’s performing in a trick-riding show, he’ll come out to watch us both. Mom puts his power chair on a rack on the back of the truck and then Dad can ride it around the event. Thebiggest obstacle is his agoraphobia that he developed a few years after his accident.

When the depression worsened, so did his anxiety and his fear of being out in public.

Dad finishes his food in silence before asking Mom to grab his chair. I give Moose my leftovers and then help clean up the kitchen before getting ready for work.

Checking my phone before leaving, I frown when there’s still no response from Mystery Guy. I know he stays busy at work and usually checks in when he can, but I can’t help feeling like maybe I said something wrong.

I also know there’s something wrong with me for even caring that much when I have no clue who this person is besides a few details.

One night, we got talking about our favorite movies and then another time about our top artists. There were a couple moments I was so close to asking him to video chat for a “face reveal,” but then I chickened out.

I don’t want to ruin this little safe space we’ve created where we can chat freely without any expectations. At least until I feel more comfortable about the idea of “meeting” him.

But there’s also this part of me that gets stupid excited to hear from him.

Still, I know it won’t last.

Because like most things in life, good things have to come to an end.

“Harlow, darlin’. So nice to see you.” Mrs. Harper smiles warmly when she walks up to the register with a few shirts and pair of boots. “How’s your mom and dad?”

“Just fine, thank you for askin’,” I say, although most people know his situation and that he’s anything but fine. “How have you been?”

“My younger sister’s comin’ to visit this weekend and she was supposed to bring her new boyfriend, who looks like a serial killer, and when I told her so, she got all defensive like how could I say that without even meeting him, but I said no offense, and I guess she took offense because now he ain’t comin’.”

My eyes grow bigger the longer she rambles, but I quietly ring up her items, and once she finally stops to take a breath, I tell her the total.

She continues talking about her sister’s serial-killer-looking boyfriend while she pays with her card and then even after I hand her the receipt.

“Well…good luck. Hope you have a great weekend,” I say, realizing she never even answered my original question and apparently needed to vent to someone who couldn’t run away mid-conversation.

“Thanks, you too.”

She takes her bag and then swiftly exits the store.