Page 88 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

Somehow in the weeks that I’d been in the hospital, the weeks when she’d run out to “do a few things,” she’d actually been at Alcott, making sure my business was churning. She’d stepped in like she’d been there all along.

More efficiently than I ever could too.

She hadn’t said a thing. She had to have been going there when the kids were with my parents. Or maybe at night. I wasn’t sure. Without a word, without expecting any kind of gratitude or praise, Molly had been my savior.

Thanks to her work, I’d been able to focus on the projects t

hat would wrap up the summer and fall rather than digging myself out from under the office work. This design I needed to finish today was the last. After I cranked it out, every project would be officially kicked off, and then we just had to see them through to the end.

For a right-handed guy, working with a full right-arm cast was extremely frustrating. I’d been gritting my teeth for hours, probably the reason for the headache. Using only my left hand, everything took three times longer than normal. But after two hours, I was nearly done.

Then the front door opened.

“Shit,” I cursed quietly. I was so goddamn sick of visitors I could scream.

My parents stopped by daily to fuss over me. If Bridget wasn’t calling me, she was coming over in a frantic blur, rattling off question after question, barely pausing to listen to my answers. And the crews had clearly been assigned shifts. In the two weeks since coming to Molly’s house, I’d figured out the pattern of who would be stopping by “because they were in the neighborhood.”

What I needed was for everyone to leave me the hell alone so I could work.

“Finn?” Poppy’s voice carried down the hallway from the front door.

I relaxed. My sister was the one person whose visits never got on my nerves. “At the table.”

She came through the kitchen and into the dining room with a smile on her face and a paper bag from the restaurant in her hand. “Hi.”

“Please tell me there are cookies or pies or something with sugar in that bag.”

She scrunched up her nose as she set it on the table. “It’s, uh, some kale salad.”

“Fucking kale,” I muttered.

“You know what the doctors said. Leafy greens will help you recover quickly.”

“Once I get out of this chair, I’m never having kale or romaine or spinach or cabbage or goddamn Swiss chard again.”

Poppy laughed. “Please. It’s not that bad.”

“Really? And what did you have for lunch? Was it this delicious kale salad?”

“Okay.” She held up her hands. “Point made.”

She’d probably had some of her macaroni and cheese. The kind with crispy crumbles on the top and loads of gooey cheese that made me want to eat until I was miserable.

“How are you?” she asked, taking the seat next to me.

“Fine.” I slid my laptop out of the way and reached for the bag.

But Poppy grabbed it before me. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.” I let her. Since the accident, I’d given up pretending I could do everything for myself.

I’d come to Molly’s thinking I could hang out, and she’d be around if I needed some help. I figured the nurses at the hospital had been picky, not wanting me to do anything for myself. They poured me water and helped me in the bathroom because it was their job.

No, they’d just known what I hadn’t: I couldn’t do shit for myself.

Literally. I couldn’t shit by myself. I couldn’t get myself out of the chair and onto a toilet without someone to help me keep my balance.

I figured that out the first night I was here. Then the next morning, I learned I couldn’t shower on my own or brush my teeth on my own. The only thing I was really capable of was wheeling myself around. Oh, and I could eat cold cereal because it was easy to “make” with one hand.