Page 79 of After We Fall

My throat, clogged with years of emotion, refuses to work. But something wants to release. My chest aches and my breaths come more quickly. I clutch my hands tighter in an unsuccessful attempt to snuff out the beast of emotion that demands to be unleashed.

Dr. Ridding stops speaking but doesn’t move.

One tear of grief streams down my cheek, leading the way for others. The names are different for each tear, but they all stem from the same loss and trauma. Grief, pain, fear, disappointment, loneliness, and terror.

The pictures’ robust palate forces something into my cognitive understanding that mere information could never have accomplished. The wild colors reach into my soul and pull out each piece of my story, one tear at a time. A fatherless life. A mother’s early death. No place to belong. A barely treated concussion. A performance-based pseudo-family. And now, a traumatic brain injury that I can’t ignore.

I am hurt.

I am hurting.

And I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

I lean forward and place a shaky hand across the images of my injured brain, my palm unable to cover or hide the entirety of the ferocious colors.

“I need help,” I whisper.

Luke lounges in a reception room chair, legs crossed at his ankles, arms crossed over his chest, and eyes closed. It’s only been a few days since I’ve seen him, and unfortunately, he still looks good.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

He sits alert, rubbing a hand over his face. “Waiting for you.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I called Meredith. She said she dropped you off here for the day. I told her I’d pick you up. I need to talk to you.”

After his last declaration about being the safe person for me to hate, then the safe person for me to love, I have no idea what to say to him. Who says things like that? And why does my stomach lurch but my heart soar at the thought of what his words might mean?

In light of the emotional purge I just experienced in Dr. Ridding’s office, I don’t have the energy to deal with him. “I don’t like surprises, Luke.”

He stands, his eyes serious. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

Something must be wrong. I take two steps toward him. “What happened?”

“Marcus made bail.”

“Oh.” I glance around the empty room. “With the events of the last few days, I lost track of that issue.”

He opens the door to exit the office and waits. “Someone needs to be with you at all times.”

“Isn’t that overkill?” I ask as I step into the hallway.

“I don’t think so.” He takes my elbow and leads me to the elevator.

In the wake of one QEEG and two treatments, I’m quite fatigued, which is probably why I don’t mind the support he offers my arm. It’s also probably the reason why, when we arrive at the elevator, I lean just a hint of my weight into his side.

At my touch, Luke lowers his head, but I stare ahead and say, “Marcus isn’t after me, Luke. He’s focused on Finley.”

“We can’t guess what his motives are at this point. Your charges put him in jail for a few days. Now that he’s made bail, I’ve got feelers out for his movements, but we need to be cautious. Someone will be with you if you leave the house.”

I release a long, low sigh. Another blank for my Mad Libs. “Great. Will someone be spoon-feeding me soon? I prefer my mashed potatoes to be creamy, with just a touch of salt.”

Luke’s shoulders shake against me, jarring me. “Sorry.” The elevator dings, and he places his hand on the small of my back to guide me forward while he chuckles. “But you’re funny.”

“I’m not funny. I’m cranky.” And tired. So very tired. I lean against the wall of the elevator, but Luke gently draws me to his side, running a hand around my waist. That feels nice. My eyes drift closed, and a small moan escapes. So tired.

“I take it you started your treatment today?”