We had just made it into the hallway when I heard Valentina behind me.
“You’re not leaving.”
I spun around to face her. “Excuse me, bitch ?”
She stepped in front of me, letting out a frustrated breath. “Look, this isn’t my decision to make. I’m gay, and I’m not his wife.”
I just stared at her. “You’re… what?”
Valentina ran a hand through her hair, looking from Ciarán back to me. “I’m sorry. I’m messing this up. I need to tell you something, and it has to be now. Our mothers set us up on a date.”
I crossed my arms, waiting.
“The moment he saw me,” she continued, “Oak told me he was trying to get his wife back. He said you were beautiful and confident, and that he loved you more than anything.” She let out a soft huff. “That’s not his exact words, but it’s close.”
My throat felt thick, but I kept my expression still.
“We’re not together,” she said firmly. “We just decided it was easier to pretend than to deal with our mothers.”
Then she turned to Ciarán, a sudden grin spreading across her face. “And you—I love you.”
Ciarán smirked. “Yeah?”
She nodded and sang a few lines from his songMidnight Love, completely off-key.
His smirk widened. “Don’t do that again,” he said, shaking his head. “I hate when fans sing to me. Especially when they can’t.”
Valentina burst out laughing. Then her face grew serious again as she looked back at me.
“Come back inside. Oak would want you here.”
I hesitated for a second. Then she grabbed my arm and started pulling me gently back toward the room. This time, I didn’t fight it.
When we got back to the waiting room, she grabbed my hand and pulled me to stand beside her.
“Jordin’s staying,” she said firmly.
Oak’s mother walked over and hugged her side—while glaring at me and physically separating us.
“You’re such a good girl. Thinking about Oak first.”
I rolled my eyes and sat back down.
A doctor walked into the room, scanning a clipboard.
He cleared his throat.
“Jordin Black?”
thirty two-Oak
Six months later.
The beige walls of the rehab center felt like they were closing in on me today, making it hard to breathe. I dropped my head into my hands, rubbing my temples as a fresh wave of frustration washed over me as I sat in my wheelchair, staring down at my fucking useless legs. My physical therapist, Michelle, a plump, middle-aged woman, stood in front of me with her clipboard tucked under her arm, giving me another one of her “You have to be patient” speeches.
Patience?
Fuck patience. Patience felt like a luxury for people who could still feel the ground beneath their feet. What I wanted was to stand on my own.
