Page 25 of Endo
I don’t answer, my gaze dropping to the floor.
The rehabilitation process has been pure hell.
The kind of hell that forces you to confront every weakness, every failure, every ounce of pain you’ve ever tried to bury. When I woke up in that hospital bed, my body broken and my world turned upside down, I thought the hardest part would be surviving the crash. I was wrong.
The real battle started when they told me I might not walk again.
Physical therapy was grueling—hours of exercises that left me drenched in sweat and swallowing back screams of frustration. Jen was there through all of it, her voice firm but encouraging as she pushed me to do one more rep, to hold the stretch a little longer, to try again even when every fiber of my being wanted to give up.
“You’ve got this,” she’d say, her tone steady and unwavering, like she believed in me even when I didn’t.
Some days, I hated her for it. Other days, I clung to her words like a lifeline.
When I finally took my first steps without crutches, it was Jen who clapped the loudest, her smile wide and genuine as she cheered me on. It was a victory, sure, but it didn’t feel like one. Because Cruz wasn’t there to see it.
Now, sitting across from her in her office, I feel that same mix of gratitude and resentment bubbling under the surface.
“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Jen continues, her voice softer now. “But bottling it up isn’t the answer. You’ve got people who care about you, Reign. Let them in.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” she agrees. “It’s messy and hard, and it takes time. But you’ve been through worse. You can handle this.”
I glance at her, the sincerity in her expression making my chest ache. I want to believe her. Hell, a part of me even does. But the idea of opening up, of letting myself feel all the things I’ve been running from, feels impossible.
Instead, I push the thought away, leaning back in my chair with a forced smirk. “You should really work on your motivational speeches, Jen. That one was pretty weak.”
She laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases.
“Just think about it,” she says, her tone light but still pointed.
I nod, but the truth is, I’ve been thinking about it. About everything. And no matter how hard I try, the memories still claw at me, the guilt still weighs me down, and the pain still feels like it’ll never end.
I leavethe rehab center with a huff, the late afternoon sun still warm on my skin. It’s been weeks since I’ve really felt like I’m making progress, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending like I’m okay.
But I shove it down, like I always do.
Today’s the first lesson with Lena where she’ll actually be riding on the track, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Part of me is looking forward to it—teaching her, keeping her safe—but the other part of me is wound so tight, I can barely sit still. The track isn’t the ocean, but it still feels like stepping back into a world I’ve been avoiding since the crash.
Before heading over, I decide to stop by Sea Side Café. I figured caffeine will help take the edge off, and if I’m being honest, I need a distraction. The place is quieter than usual for this time of day, the soft hum of conversation blending with the hiss of the espresso machine.
Lena’s always been a sucker for iced coffee—extra caramel, no matter the season. She used to drive Cruz crazy with how sweet she liked it, calling it “dessert in disguise,” but she’d just laugh and sip it anyway. The memory makes my chest ache, but I shake it off, stepping up to the counter to place my order.
“One iced coffee, extra caramel, and a black coffee. Large. I’m gonna need it,” I tell the barista, forcing a half-smile.
I grab the drinks and head for the parking lot, the scent of coffee filling the interior of my Mustang as I drive toward the track. The caffeine’s more of a crutch than a solution, but right now, I’ll take whatever keeps my head on straight.
When I pull into the lot, the track stretches out before me, all sharp curves and long straightaways, calling to something deep inside me. The urge to be out there, following my line, twisting the throttle, and feeling the engine rumble beneath me, is almost overwhelming. For a moment, I can picture it—how natural it used to feel, how free.
But then my eyes land onthatspot.
The exact place where everything went to hell.
My chest tightens as the memory hits like a sucker punch: the screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal, the way time seemed to slow as everything shattered. My hands grip the steering wheel harder, my knuckles whitening as I force myself to breathe through the wave of nausea.
The pull of the track disappears, replaced by the weight of why I can’t be out there anymore. My head won’t let me. And maybe it never will.
I exhale slowly, shaking off the tension as best I can, and grab the coffees from the passenger seat. Lena will be here soon, and I can’t afford to spiral. This isn’t about me. It’s about her. Always has been.
