“The pain isn’t easy,” I admitted. “I’ve only taken a few short steps, but they say I’m doing good.”

“Jesus Christ,” Smith said, pity covering his face. “I still can’t believe it.”

“None of us can,” my mother replied.

“How was your trip—or what you were able to enjoy of it before coming back?” I asked Smith, reaching the end of my vulnerability for the day.

“We’re going as soon as you feel up to it,” he responded before describing many of the details that I hadn’t seen through text or Instagram.

But all I could think about was how long it would take before I was comfortable enough to fly that long, when—if ever—I would find myself on the back of an ATV. The talk I’d had with Whitney last night was so present in my mind. Reality swirling like a tornado, the wind causing my hair to rise as my limitations came into view.

My hands reached for the covering, wishing like hell it were the blanket of brown, and I squeezed the thin material into my palms.

Even surrounded by friends and family didn’t make this easier. Because I knew it was just a matter of time before they rose from their chairs, walked down the hallway to the elevator, and got in a car outside. But I was cemented to this bed, hoping the pain medication would kick in even higher, waiting for the man I’d once been to return.

Whitney had told me not to mourn my life, that it would just look a little different now.

But that was a pill that felt impossible to swallow.

Five

“Hey,” Whitney said from the doorway of my room, her hand clinging to the frame. “Feel like having some company?”

I turned off my tablet and set it on the table, nodding. “Please.”

As she walked in, I saw hints of her body through the loose scrubs, a pair of lean legs and a narrow waist, tits that would fit perfectly in my palms. Her sexiness certainly didn’t end at her face.

“How are you feeling tonight?” she asked, choosing the closest chair to the bed.

I could still feel the softness of her hands from when she had bathed me. Those were the thoughts I’d tried to focus on after my mother and friends left, drowning out the rest of the noise filling my head. Whitney made this prison and its constant torture more tolerable.

“Not as bad as last night,” I admitted. “But sitting and standing aren’t fun at all.”

She crossed her legs, holding her hands over her knee. “Those positions, they take your breath away, don’t they?”

I ground my teeth together, thinking how it would feel if I turned my hips and swung my legs a few inches to the side. “I’ll never take movement for granted again.”