I just wish I didn’t need to pee so bad.
I hang out in my cozy bed for about twenty more minutes. Contrary to what anyone would think if they saw me like this, I’m not actually the world’s biggest wimp when it comes to pain. This behavior is reserved solely for my period cramps, which really are the worst. I mean, I’m grateful my body seems to be doing its thing like it’s supposed to. And I’m grateful for the ability to hopefully have kids one day.
But…blood? And pain? For an entireweek? Not to mention hormonal shifts that will make me do things like, oh, I don’t know—sob my eyes out over a decent book and freak my best friend out in the process? There’s a reason women use red to keep track of their cycles on the calendar: it’s because red is the color of the vengeance our bodies exact on us every month.
Or, you know. Because red is the color of blood. Whatever.
When my bladder finally wins out, I get up and use the restroom. After that, I (predictably) crawl right back in my bed.
I told you I lived here now. I was serious.
My gaze drifts from my overhead fan—always on because it’s hot during the day and I can’t sleep at night without air circulating—to the bulletin board hanging on the wall over my clothes hamper. Most of the pictures on there are of me and Carter, but in the bottom right corner is one of my mom and me. It was taken before the accident, so she’s still whole and healthy and happy, her hand resting on my head as the photograph version of me hugs her legs, head just level with her hips. It’s a photo that hurts to look at, which is partly why I keep it: a reminder to be better, to do better. A reminder of the things I need to atone for.
Most of the time I manage not to dwell on the enormity of that task, but sometimes it sneaks up on me and wallops me in the stomach. Which, of course, makes me want to crawl under my covers and never come out. Because how do you make amends for irreparable harm? How do you fix something that’s broken beyond repair?
You don’t, because you can’t. Doesn’t stop me from trying, though. Everything I do, everything I try to accomplish, big or small, is for her. Putting my actions out into the world and hoping they'll be enough someday, somehow, to make things right. Perfecting things that she’ll never be able to do,becauseshe’ll never be able to do them.
Carter doesn’t think this approach is healthy, but this is the man who pours his milk before he pours his cereal, so really, what does he know?
I groan at this thought. A lot. He knows a lot,dang it. How to make me laugh and how to dry my tears and definitely,definitelyhow to kiss.
Not that this was ever in question. Carter is objectively gorgeous, and he’s been on God’s green earth for twenty-six years. Those lips have seen a lot of action, even including a fairly serious girlfriend a while back. Mariah was beautiful in a scary kind of way, sort of like the evil Ursula girlfriend inThe Little Mermaid. Like her eyebrows were great and her eyes were seductive, but deep down inside she might be a sea monster.
I don’t know. It’s just a theory.
Carter never told me why they broke up, but I feel like if there were sea monsters involved I would have heard about it. So I really don’t know. I asked, of course, but then he started talking loudly about hot wings, which is something he does when he wants to avoid a conversation.
Loudly changing the subject, that is. It doesn’t always involve hot wings.
It is always louder than necessary, though. Not sure why he thinks he’s being sneaky when he’s suddenly half-yelling about a subject that doesn’t warrant the increase in volume, but whatever. He didn’t want to talk about it, and it’s not as though it’s really any of my business anyway. So I dropped it and pretended that we always have shouted conversations about whether ranch is better than blue cheese dressing.
It is, by the way. Ranch is always better.
Aaand now I’m hungry. Hungry and missing Carter, who I haven’t spoken to since the kiss two days ago.
Two days.That’s a long time for us. It tells me more than words ever could, though: that kiss disrupted our status quo. And if I decide to pursue Carter, that will disrupt it even more.
The thing is, though, I’m just as scared ofnotmoving forward as I am ofmovingforward. Because I’m getting to the point where my feelings for Carter are starting to sting a little. I don’t like seeing him with other women, but I’m also not doing anything about it. I have to move forward. And I did ask for a sign, after all—what was that kiss if not a sign?
So, yeah. I think I’m going to do it. Probably going to google “how to flirt with your best friend” first, but after that I’m all in.
It’s scary. Terrifying. But if my feelings for him are starting to hurt, it really seems like the best option.
So, I decide to put an end to our silence. I need to fill in Carter on our plans for tomorrow anyway.
“Carter,” I groan when he answers his phone.
“What’s up with you?” he says immediately. “You sound like crap.”
“I’m dying,” I say.
“Hmm,” he says, his smooth, deep voice sounding amused; I can picture the little smirk he’s wearing. “Are you really, though?”
“Yes. My uterus is staging a rebellion. I can feel the life leaving my body as we speak,” I say, adjusting the heat pack so that I get prime uterus coverage.
“Ah, I see,” he says, and I can still hear the smile in his voice. “And judging by how whiny you are—”
“I’m not whiny—”
