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“Why can’t you help me?” I whined, immediately winning nods from my mom.
Yarrow asked, “Can we sleep in your room?”
“Let Goldie and York be alone,” my dad insisted. “They need to figure things out.”
A snarling Rock suddenly appeared next to my parents and stared down at me. “I bought you a lightweight wheelchair. It’ll fit through your bathroom door.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Rock squinted at me and growled, “Stay off your foot.”
“Don’t ever tell me what to do!” I hollered up at him. “Never ever!”
Despite the small girls pointing at him and mocking his scolding, Rock refused to relent. “You will obey, or I will have you tied down to a bed. Do you want to wear adult diapers because this bullheaded behavior will lead to you wearing adult diapers?”
I immediately demanded, “Where’s Clint?”
“Yeah, we want to speak to the manager,” Yarrow said and poked Rock’s chest.
“Wouldn’t that be my mom?”
Yarrow shook her head. “No, Ginger’s too weak with you. I want Clint to kick your ass. Where is he?”
“Out front, inspecting the new gate.”
“Go outside, Rock Savo, and let Clint kick your ass.”
“I’m not doing that,” he said, refusing to budge. Yet, when Yarrow inhaled deeply as if to holler, Rock flinched and backed off. “No screaming.”
“Wait,” I said and reached for my mom. “York has tinnitus and doesn’t like loud noises.”
My mom’s cheeks puffed out as she held her breath and considered whether she should scream in Rock’s face. Exhaling deeply, she frowned at the large man.
“Go outside and get beat up.”
“Sure,” Rock said before focusing on me. “Your wheelchair is right there. Feel free to send me a thank-you fruit basket. I like the tropical ones.”
Hissing at him, I refused to use a wheelchair. Or be carried by my middle-aged dad. Or by my exhausted fuck buddy. I would just use crutches!
After nearly falling on my ass twice, I gave up and pretended as if the wheelchair had been Clint’s idea.
“Thanks for this, pres,” I said to a smirking Clint as Rock shook his head. “You always have the best ideas.”
Soon, Blackjack pushed the wheelchair to my room, where Yarrow helped me change into an oversized Disneyland T-shirt and baggy boxers. She wiped my face and brushed my teeth since I couldn’t reach the sink. Blackjack stood at the bathroom door, watching us.
“You came back to us,” my dad said, exposing the fear he’d kept bottled up inside since I went missing.
Yarrow made a squeaky noise, and I felt her wanting to flip out. Instead, she brushed my hair.
“Do you like York?” I asked my dad, who leaned against the doorjamb.
“As a man, sure. He took care of you and handled the assholes. But I don’t have any real thoughts on him as the guy you’re in love with.”
“Because you didn’t get to talk to him?”
“I think he hides in his head, and I don’t have access to what he’s thinking.”
“He watched you,” Yarrow said and rested the brush on the small counter. “He wasn’t interested in anyone else. I like that. Your dad was obsessed with me when we first met.”
