Page 83 of Imperfect Cadence
So then why did it hurt so fucking much?
Jealousy and hurt mingled as I angrily swiped at my eyes, snatching up the final notebook and flipping to the last entry. I knew I couldn’t continue to torture myself like this, but I also needed assurance that Gray was alright. Violet had mentioned his depression, so I told myself that I was just ensuring he wasn’t planning on doing anything to harm himself.
Colt
I dreamed you were at the hospitel. I tired to tell you that I never stoped loving you, but you probably didnt here me. It dosent matter anymore anyway. As much as Ive wanted you back in my life for so long, I cant rite now. Not like this. I cant even fucking walk anymore. What could I posibly have to ofer you? The man who has everything. The man who could have anyone. Im broken. My body is useless now. Ugly and full of scars. You disev deserve better than me. I think I need to give you up for good.
Good by, my love. You were are the best thing that ever happened to me. I wish I could have kept my word.
35. “Love The Way You Lie”
Grayson
Gratefully settling into my shower chair, affectionately dubbed “The Throne,” I attempted to ease my strained breathing. I also tried my hardest to shake off the desire to wallow, which proved the more daunting task.
Not only were my physical therapy sessions kicking my ass in the physical sense, but my new limitations were fucking with my mental state. As someone who had always taken pride in my body, and craved the burn of exercise to calm my mind, the rehabilitation process felt demeaning. Rehabbing alongside octogenarians fresh from hip replacement surgery only added to the humiliation, especially when said grannies were already walking circles around me.
I’d say they were running circles around me, but let’s be real—their running days were well behind them. Frustration and rage surged at the realization that mine probably were too… It was so fucking unfair. Why me? What did I do to deserve this useless body that couldn’t even get me from A to B anymore. My eyes stung with unshed tears, and I silently thanked the scalding water for masking my shame.
At least Violet wasn’t here to witness my latest breakdown.
The shame deepened as I recalled hurling my crutches in a fit of rage, fed up with the indignity of struggling with basic tasks, something as simple as rising from the fucking toilet without the assistance of a handrail now out of reach. I recalled the nights when she would timidly knock on my door, asking if I was okay after the sound of my pathetic sobbing had woken her.
I’d tried to play it off, pretending I was crying because of the pain. I knew she didn’t buy that for a second, but her silence was a kindness I didn’t deserve.
I didn’t have a clue how to act around her anymore. She had maturity well beyond her years, but she hadn’t signed up for this. It was bad enough I’d already become a burden to her, having relied on her to assist in my recovery—an unavoidable responsibility. Remy did his best to support me, but he still had multiple companies to run and he couldn’t ignore his duties forever.
The guilt I felt, knowing I was subjecting her to my tumultuous moods, though? It consumed me. I longed to shield her from my increasingly dark thoughts, but my brain refused to cooperate.
I couldn’t deny that I had failed in my role as a parent. When Remy had pulled me aside yesterday to discuss his and Violet’s concerns, suggesting I needed professional help, I lashed out. Which had to be the biggest warning sign, considering I was hellbent on denying what was right before my eyes. If I were in a better headspace, I would have been able to see that. As I shouted at Remy to mind his own business, his sympathetic gaze spoke volumes. The Remy I knew would have given me some tough love on the spot; that he thought I couldn’t handle it should have been a wake-up call.
As soon as they left, I made the call. Color me surprised that the psychologist from my first Colt induced breakdown still remembered me. I almost hung up when I heard her greeting, dreading the prospect of dredging up those long buried feelings. But I gritted my teeth and scheduled the appointment. I had vowed Violet wouldn’t grow up with an emotionally stunted parent like I did. I had broken too many promises in my life already, and this wouldn’t be another one.
With a heavy sigh, I turned off the shower and hoisted myself up into a standing position. It took a few seconds to adjust to the added pressure on my bad leg, leaving me a little lightheaded. The persistent ache had mostly subsided, leaving behind a sense of weakness from months of disuse. Hobbling out of the shower stall, I focused on activating the correct muscles in my injured leg as my physical therapist had instructed, trying to overcome the default limp my body had developed to compensate. Some days were more successful than others, and today, my muscles didn’t want to play ball.
I carefully perched on the edge of the tub as I cautiously inched a pair of shorts over my hips, doing my best to ignore the thick, ugly red scar that stretched from my groin to mid-shin. Standing before the vanity, I began to towel off my unruly mop of hair, now a horrible mess of uneven lengths—some parts only just growing in from where they’d been shaved, patches that no longer grew hair over the scars, while the remainder consisted of longer pieces I hadn’t bothered to cut to match the rest. I deliberately avoided wiping the condensation from the mirror, refusing to look into the eyes of the stranger who would meet my gaze. I’d grown some scruff on my jaw in the hopes it might mask the fullness that had settled beneath my jawline in the past few months—too bad you couldn’t grow body fuzz on demand. My newer, fuller figure made me feel unsettled, like I’d inhabited the body of an alien. I guess that’s what happened when you abruptly stopped nearly all physical activity, and developed a habit for stuffing your face with donuts in the hopes the sugar might replace the emptiness inside.
I couldn’t quite grasp why I still cared. After all, there was nobody left to impress anyway. Colt had made sure of that. He had taken one look at my battered and broken body and walked away, not even bothering to stick around long enough to see if I would be okay.
Sure, Remy had mentioned Colt had left his number and asked me to call him if I needed anything, but that felt like total bullshit. Just more empty words that were becoming the running theme of our relationship. If he didn’t think nearly losing my leg constituted “needing” him, then I was done. It was painfully clear that Colt was no longer the man I’d married; my Colt wouldn’t have hesitated to stand by my side, regardless of our past.
When I’d first left the hospital, I’d been stuck in a spiral of self-pity. I berated myself for not being good enough to make Colt stay. But those feelings soon transformed into anger—towards him, towards myself, towards the entire world.
It was better this way. It wasn’t like I’d ever see him again and directing the anger bubbling up in my chest at Colt felt healthier than directing it at my family.
Making my way down the hall toward the sofa, intending to crash there for the rest of the night, I jumped at the sound of a key turning in the lock. I glanced at my watch in confusion—Violet and Remy weren’t due home for hours. I swear, if that dick canceled the flights I’d booked in order to fly them home on his jet, he’d be getting an earful from me. He knew the rules—no unnecessary spoiling of the pre-teen.
I rounded the corner to the entryway, prepared to give Remy a piece of my mind and froze in my tracks instead.
Standing before me was a ghost.
A pint-sized, stunning ghost that just so happened to simultaneously make me want to fall to my knees in relief, and toss out the front door in disgust.
I had to give him credit for one thing—Colt looked terrible. I mean, he’d always be the sexiest man I’d ever seen, but he didn’t look okay. Dark circles underscored his eyes, evidence of months of sleepless nights. His lips were red and chapped from biting them, a nervous habit that he clearly still hadn’t shaken. Even his hair lacked its usual luster. And he appeared thinner than ever, reminiscent of the fragile state I’d found him in all those years ago in the alley behind the gas station.
I wanted to believe it was because he was suffering just as much as I was.
But I couldn’t. He had proven time and time again that he didn’t give a shit about me anymore.
