Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 100476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Love shines in her eyes. I know it’s the same look reflected in mine. And to think I actually tried to convince myself months ago that I could hate her.
I couldn’t hate her if I tried.
“You ready to give that baby up so we can go pretend to make one of our own?” I ask, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
“Five more minutes.”
“I’ve got the rest of my life, Hutton,” I say, already loving my last name as hers. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here. I’ll always be right here.”
Terrence
The Day After Christmas
I can’t focus.
I can’t read.
I can’t fucking do anything.
Pressure mounts inside my skull, throbbing to the point it’s maddening. I rub at my temples, willing the pain to leave, but it never does.
No relief.
Never any relief.
The only time I feel like I have control over this shit is when I’m working out. I push my body to the point of exhaustion, desperate to redevelop the muscle tone I lost while in my coma. The therapists I have had to see are all fucking lame. I can dress myself and feed myself. Hell, I could fuck if I wanted to. I don’t need help with that shit. The limp I have will get worked out from gym time, not dumbass physical therapy exercises. That’s exactly what I told that dude too when I said we were done and not to come back. My neurologist is the one who’s mostly concerned, but the guy is always so fucking busy. I can’t wait two months to see him.
I’m at my wits’ end. Last night, I knew it was my end because I considered the unthinkable. That it’d go away if I just blew my goddamn head off.
Right now, as this fucking skull-crushing shit consumes me, I really wish I had that gun.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The door pushes open and Garrett—or Dr. English—walks in. It’s strange seeing him in doctor mode. He’s not wearing a white lab coat or anything, but he’s dressed impeccably and has an aura of brilliance and confidence that he wears like a second skin.
I really, really hope he can help me.
“Terrence,” he greets. “A little surprised to see you today.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing a finger into my temple.
“You look like shit. What’s up?”
I close my eyes and grit my teeth. Fuck this headache. “My head has been killing me, man. I can’t think. I can’t fucking focus. Your girl out front had to fill my paperwork out for me.” I reopen my eyes, squinting at him because the light is my nemesis right now.
“And you drove here feeling like this?” he asks, his brow lifted.
I shrug, wincing. “It’s snowing. I live like five miles from here. Sure as fuck wasn’t gonna walk.”
He walks over to the light switch and turns it off. The dull, muted gray light coming in from the window is our only light source. I could kiss him.
“Light bothers you?”
“Yep.”
“Sound?”
“Fuck yes.”
“What about changes in your vision? Any tunnel-like vision or colorful auras or zig-zags in your line of sight?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’m going to check a few things, but you might be suffering from migraines.”
No shit, Sherlock.
He smirks at my sardonic expression. “And I’m going to give you something for them. I’m going to perform a full physical first, though. I’d prefer to make my own assessments rather than read what the hospital doctor had to say.”
We spend the next half hour or so with him checking everything from my temperature to pressing on the scars on my head. I’m eager to get the prescription to see if it brings me some relief.
“You found a job yet?” he asks when he finishes up.
“Nope.”
“Have you tried?”
I shrug. “I can’t look at the computer for more than ten seconds. What’s the point?”
“Do you feel like that a lot?”
“Like what?”
“Like there’s no point?”
Yes.
“No,” I lie.
“How do you feel about your scars?”
“Fuckin’ ugly as fuck.”
He sighs. “Listen. I’m going to be straight with you. From what I’ve observed since you’ve come out of your coma compared to before the accident, you’re different. It’s understandable considering what you went through. No one’s expecting you to be all smiles. That accident has physically changed you. Disfigured you.”
I flip him off. Blunt like his fucking kid, Penny.
“I’m not insulting you,” he continues. “I’m simply stating that it’s impacting your mental health.”
I glower at him. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“I’m not a psychiatrist, but having had children who suffer from disorders like anxiety and depression, I’m able to pick up on the signs.”
“Do I look anxious?” I snap.
“Do you feel anxious?” he throws back. “Do you feel overwhelmed?”
“What do you think?”
“Terrence, man, help me help you. Do you ever have dark thoughts? Suicidal ones?”
“Like wanting to blow your fucking head off because your head hurts so goddamn bad and it never goes away?” I snap. “Naw, man, never.”