I take a deep breath and shake my hands out. This isn't just a big deal. This is huge. And it's not just the house. There's a part of me that knows as soon as we're settled in here, other, more pressing issues are going to float to the surface. Least of all finding out exactly what happened at that concert. The way my mind is programmed, I won't be able to rest until I've got every detail, uncovered every dirty secret, connected every dot. Once I've got a story laid out, I'll feel a hell of a lot better.
And then there's my kids. I think about them every fucking day now – a big change from the random thoughts that used to drift through my brain. I need to get Lydia back from my parents and see about getting Phoebe back from Shannon's. They're not gonna fucking like that. Their daughter was knocked up and abandoned by yours truly and now she's dead. A shiver travels down my spine and I have to tune out what Camby's saying to process the emotions. That's just the tip of the iceberg, too. How someone like me, somebody that's been fucked out of their mind for nearly a decade, is going to handle suddenly having to be a parent to a three year old and an infant is anybody's guess.
I lick my suddenly dry lips and glance back at Lola. If we're going to be a couple, a real couple, and that's all I fucking want in this world, then she'll have to be a part of my daughters' lives. I start wringing my hands, and I can feel a small pool of sweat gathering on my lower back. Shit. One day at a time, I tell myself as I try to drag my attention back to the current conversation. One day at a time.
Turner shakes hands with Camby, and I follow suit, smiling and nodding at whatever it is she's trying to say. When he turns to walk away, Turner puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Dude, you're getting the ghost look again. What's up?” I look back at my friend and try to take some solace in his strength. The girl I love is here with me, right now, while his soul mate lies comatose in a bed. If he can smile and swagger around and act like an idiot, I can at least pull my shit together.
“Too much thought and not enough action,” I say with a sigh. My lips tingle for a cigarette and my skin crawls with the desperate longing for a needle. But I can't do it. No more relapses. If I play my cards right here, I could very well end up with a normal life.
“Jesus Christ, Jesse, you must've been a birthing a Goddamn baby in there. No wonder the bus bathroom was never free.”
“Hey, screw you, Turner!” Jesse shouts back, and I sigh, meeting Lola's blue eyes as I feel my lips twitch in embarrassment and barely concealed affection for these assholes. Okay, so maybe a normal life isn't on the books for me, but it doesn't mean it can't be a good one.
Later that night, we're shacked up in a ritzy hotel and I'm finally able to stand up. I wobble like a fucking drunken emu, but I manage. Ronnie's right by my side, his fingers on my hips, his hot breath on the back of my neck. It's the first time we've been alone since the concert on Friday. Fuck, how many days ago was that? It feels like it was both yesterday and an eternity ago. How the hell does that even work?
“Hey, love,” I say and feel a slight flush of heat through my body at the word. Love. I love Ronnie. I can admit that now. Near death experiences are good for shocking the system like that. Now I just have to figure out how and when I'm going to tell the guy that. “What day of the week is it?”
“It's Friday,” Ronnie says and the word feels like it's fluttering against the back of my neck. My fingers curl around the door frame of the bathroom as I try to keep my feet. Collapsing to the burgundy and gold hotel carpet wouldn't exactly be the best way to convince Ronnie I'm feeling good enough for a wrestling match in the sack. “Feels impossible, right? That it's been a week since the concert?”
“Yes and no,” I say as he trails his fingers over my side and I turn, putting my back to the wall and looking into his brown eyes. I know there's nothing special about the color, not really, but something about Ronnie's gaze is mesmerizing to me. The depths of his emotions, the intensity with which he feels them, those are rare traits in a man. Hell, those are rare traits in anybody. I swallow and drag my eyes away, focusing on the dark window panes to my right.
When Ronnie reaches over and starts to pull up the loose jersey dress I'm wearing, I don't stop him. The lady parts flood like a Goddamn monsoon's brewing overhead, but I know this isn't about sex. He just wants – no, needs – to see what happened to me. I close my eyes and let Ronnie have a peek at my first ever official gunshot wound.
“I'm a certified badass now, aren't I?” I joke, but Ronnie doesn't laugh. His fingers travel across the bandages and then pause. I hear his breath hitch as he slowly peels away the gauze. Still, I don't look at him. I can't. Not yet. I wait until I feel the brush of air against the wound before I crack my lids and glance down. “I guess I got lucky,” I tell Ronnie, trying to smile. The expression won't stick to my lips. “The bullet passed through, missed my intestines and all that other good stuff in there. Lucky me, right?”