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“You can’t see what I see and the kind of progress you’re making, Patrick. I know you’re used to getting knocked down, then bouncing back up, but it doesn’t work that way with brain injuries. It’s calling the plays, not you.”
“I just want to take a dump in private,” I said, much to my own horror.
Jesse and Michael laughed, and Cole covered his face with both his hands. Simon just stared at me, unfazed, as if I were an imbecile. Maybe I was now.
“Have you met unfiltered Patrick yet?” Cole asked them, making them laugh again.
Okay, it was kinda unintentionally funny.
“Nothing fazes me. I have a six-year-old, and an Italian husband. When he gets mad, you better get out of the way.” Jesse grinned.
My eyes found Cole’s. We’d always wanted that for us, but that was difficult to manage while I played football and he was on tour. I guess we'd have to see what happened when all of this was over.
"Alright, we're heading out. You rest and try to stay out of trouble. We can try again tomorrow."
Jesse and Michael left first, but I had a question for Simon. "Can I sit in the chair?"
Simon nodded. "Yes. In fact, I'm going to ask the nurses to get you up with a walker for support."
"I don't need a walker!"
He raised a brow at me. "Do you want to, how did you phrase it? Ah, yes, ever take a dump in private?"
I burst out laughing as Simon gave my line back to me, but fucking hell that hurt. "Yes, I do, thank you very much."
"Then listen to the nurses," he said, walking out the door. Then he called over his shoulder, "Good luck, Cole!"
I was beginning to feel better already.
CHAPTER 13
COLE
After three long weeks, Patrick was released from the hospital, and we went home. Adam and Michael had dropped off my bags from the tour at the house, but I’d have to unpack. I just wasn’t sure where to put them.
Did I unpack everything in our room, or should I go upstairs to a guest room? In the three weeks since the accident, Patrick hadn’t mentioned our breakup.
Or Seattle.
And he hadn’t asked anymore about the accident itself. I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept my mouth shut and didn’t volunteer any information. If he asked, then I’d tell him. Maybe.
Michael pushed the wheelchair down to the ER where he’d parked the Suburban. Patrick was still sensitive to the light, and the headache was still there. He was also irritable and suffered from mood swings. I hoped going home would help with some of that.
I handed him his sunglasses as we waited for Michael to get the car.
“Thanks,” he muttered, and took them from my hand.
I was really surprised the media had not been here to cover the story. I don’t know how we’d avoided it, but I was thankful. That was the last thing we needed.
Michael pulled up with the car and got out to open the back door. I locked the wheels and Patrick stood up on his own. He was wobbly for a moment, then found his balance.
“I could have opened the door myself,” he muttered.
Michael laughed. “Yeah, well, you better enjoy this celebrity treatment, because I won’t be toting you around like some prima donna after today.”
“Can I call you Jeeves?” Patrick asked as he gently slid into the back seat.
“Fuck no.”
