Page 5 of Derecho

“You have a responsibility to us, Greg. You don’t just get to make this mess and then cast us aside. Is it really this hard to love me? Was it really the worst moment of your life when I told you I was pregnant?”

“Yes,” he seethed.

Something in me cracked. “You better not be here when I get back!” I yelled.

I turned to head back out to my car, but Greg’s hand tightened around my wrist, pressing painfully against the burn I’d just gotten. I yelped, pulling away as hard as I could, but I couldn’t break from his hold.

“This is my house, Lainey. If you don’t want to give birth to that bastard in your belly living next to some dumpster in an alley, then I’d think about how you talk to me in my own home.”

I pulled again against his hold, even knowing I couldn’t break loose, I had to try. “You’re hurting me,” I whined.

“Apologize.”

“Screw you,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

His grip tightened at the same time my belly did. Jesus. How could I forget I needed to keep this baby safe?

“I’m sorry,” I groaned, my free hand supporting the weight of my belly. God, it was getting so tight it was hard to breathe.

“Get the fuck out of here. You better pray I don’t come home tonight. You haven’t put out since the night that thing started growing inside of you, and I’m getting real sick of waiting.”

Lachlan

“Fuck!”

Gasping, I sat up, my bedroom spinning as I fought against the wave of nausea that slammed into me. Christ, that nightmare was nothing new. I’d had it almost every time I closed my eyes since the accident, but waking up from it never got easier.

My leg throbbed, the familiar twitching of an oncoming muscle spasm zapping my already shot nerves. I needed to get up and move. If I could walk, I might be able to stop it before I was left crying, pathetically waiting for it to pass.

Tossing the blankets back, I grabbed my cane from where it was leaning against the edge of my headboard and pushed up until I landed on my good leg. I started walking toward the hall, the familiar pit of loathing stirring deep in my belly.

My accident was a nightmare, sure. But the aftermath—the way even three years later I was still a captive to the day that changed everything—made me sick. I walked to the bathroom with my cane, letting it lean against the wall outside the shower while I got cleaned up. By the time I was in the kitchen making my cup of coffee, my heart had finally stopped beating out of my chest.

Had my nightmare been more vivid because I knew what this morning held? Therapy days were my least favorite days of the week. Not because I didn’t like my therapist; she was actually the best. But because I knew I’d failed so monumentally at making any progress.

I talked a big game in therapy. How I was fine. Coping. Wanting to get better. But the minute I exited out of our video chat, I went right back to being a coward. Someone who was scared of his own front door. Of the million different dangerous situations that lived on the other side of it.

Here in my house, I had control. Or as much control as anyone could ever have, really. I’d sat and thought about every danger that lived in these walls with me. Electrical. Insect. Arachnid. Intruder. Self-inflicted. I’d run through thousands of scenarios over and over again, in meticulous detail each time about how I would survive each thing. It gave me comfort, knowing I’d thought of all the possible outcomes and how to mitigate them. Because I couldn’t do that before.

I couldn’t stop my sister from having to see me lying on that floor, bleeding to death. I couldn’t stop my brothers from having to rescue me. Or my parents from having to face the unknown around whether I would live or die. They had to help me bathe like I was a fucking baby again after my surgeries. They lived with me for months, coddling me back to life. A half-life, really.

My coffee had gone cold by the time I sat down to log in to my laptop. Another Lachlan spiral had stolen time from the day. Classic.

The waiting room sound chimed as my therapist, Dr. Sloane Donovan, logged on to our session.

“Hi, Lachlan. How are you doing today?”

“Hey, Doc. I didn’t cancel this week, so I guess that’s a win, right?”

“Yes, I’m always happy to see you in session. But I’ve noticed that tends to be your greeting when something has happened. What’s going on?”

I sighed, sitting back in the chair before running my hand over my jaw. I should have shaved before my telehealth visit. I knew it was going to bother me, consume all of my attention, and still, I couldn’t do it.

“I had another nightmare.”

“About the accident?” she asked, her voice even.

“Isn’t it always?”