“Yeah, hopefully.”
I feel a little bad that he has no idea what he’s actually hoping for. I know with an unwavering sense of clarity that his memories of the crash will be an unwelcomed gift amongst the rest. I sit back quietly as I make a mental note to text Moira as soon as I can and let her know of the developments. I feel sneaky and I don’t like it one bit.
I LIE ABOUT what I can remember. It isn’t just meeting Blair and going to Marco’s that I recall; I remember what transpired when I returned home. Being locked in the garage with my dad, the beating he delivered all because I’d forgotten I had plans to help him. I can hear him telling me what a useless, selfish person I am as if he were right here beside me, whispering it to me at this exact moment. I shudder, trying to dislodge the thought. I can’t tell them this, it will only upset them and if I'm honest with myself, I don’t want to say it out loud. It makes it too real. I was telling the truth about the crash though: I still have no clue as to what happened or why; all I know for sure is how frustrated it’s making me. All this ‘we don’t want to cause any undue stress’ bullshit is what’s causing my stress. How ridiculously ironic. Surely everyone can see that! Whatever. If they don't tell me to my face, I’m sure I can manipulate some information out of them somehow. I’ve never had a problem getting what I want from women before; I don’t see why I would now.
“How’s your food, Ethan?” Susan asks taking a sip of her ice water. “You’ve hardly touched it.”
“It’s good, thanks. Guess I’m not quite as hungry as I thought.” I push my plate aside and lean back into the booth. “I’m going to step outside and grab some air if that’s okay. I have a headache.” I shuffle across the seat and maneuver past Blair, who’s studying me with a concerned frown.
“Want me to come with you?” she asks, already pushing her food away and wriggling her way around the circular booth.
“I’m good, Princess. Stay with your mom; I just want to clear my head.”
I leave before she has a chance to reply, It’s not that I don’t want her with me, it’s more that when she is with me she’s all I can focus on and it’s distracting as hell.
I make my way out to the front and lean against the rough red brick wall. The sight of traffic rapidly passing by makes me dizzy as it blurs into a continuous stream. My headache feels like a jackhammer beating behind my eyes. It’s rivaling the worst hangover I ever had when I was fifteen and Jackson and I drank a whole bottle of his dad’s whisky when his parents were out of town. The smell of exhaust fumes mingles with the aroma of the restaurant, lingering in the thick humidity of the afternoon. I’m standing here all of thirty seconds before I feel someone touch my arm.
“I told you I’m fine, Prin...” my words falter when I realize it’s not Blair. “What are you doing here? How did you even know where I was?”
“I called Blair. She told me where you’re staying, I was on my way over when I noticed you as I was driving by…look, I wanted to come and talk before you headed home.”
“Fan-fucking-tastic! I thought we were done talking back at the hospital, Mom.”
“Watch your language, Ethan,” she clips with a hint off pissed-off tone to her voice. It’s not often she gets like this with me. Probably because she feels like she has to be super nice to make up for everything she doesn’t do, like put me before him.
“The doctors can’t give me a definitive timeframe for when or even if your dad can be moved to a hospital closer to home,” she begins. “I don’t like the thought of you going back and being so far away.”
I scoff at the suggestion that she gives a shit. “If it bothers you that much, Mom, you’d be coming home with me.”
I huff out a disgruntled breath when she doesn’t respond, sensing that this conversation is pointless.
“Look, I’m eighteen years old. I don’t need babysitting, and I’ll be fine on my own.”
“You’re not fine, Ethan, you’re recovering from surgery. You have retrograde amnesia and heaven only knows the emotional trauma all this is causing.”
She moves to place her hand on my shoulder and I step away sharply. The hurt is instantly evident in her eyes; her face falls and the part of me that isn’t a screwed-up mess feels bad.
“That’s the one I dislocated,” I tell her, hoping she’ll accept it as the reason I don’t want her comforting me. “It’s still sore.”
“Sorry,” she says, shifting her weight on her feet.