Page 66 of Break Point

I twirl pasta around my fork without looking but abandon the bite after a few seconds. I’m not hungry. Probably because I’m not moving. I’m barely awake during the day. At night, I can’t get myself to fall asleep. I’m too scared. What if I have a seizure?

The medical team at Mercy watched me for forty-eight hours. I had four seizures that they monitored, but only one that I was awake for. I wonder how long I’ve been doing this at night.

“Fine, I’ll try to play. But I have to start somewhere, and I think that should be with my accounting class. And doing homework in my apartment. Is that fair?” I fold my arms over my chest and meet my mother’s stare. She’s the one who’s worried. I can tell. My dad is ready for me to challenge for the one seed again. My mom wants to sit in the bathroom while I shower.

“Why can’t you study at home for the rest of the semester? The school offered to finish your term online,” my mom points out for the umpteenth time.

My father sighs, dropping his fork and sinking back in their half of the booth.

“What? You’re on her side now?” My mom gives him a hard glare, but he doesn’t break the way he normally does when my mom challenges him. Thank you, Dad.

“I know you’re scared. I’m scared. But you sat in that room with me, we both heard what the doctor said,” my dad says.

I clear my throat, and they look at me as I lift my palm.

“All three of us heard,” I correct.

“Right. She heard the diagnosis with us. The medication is working. It’s been two weeks, Daria. She hasn’t had a seizure since—”

“You don’t know that!” My mom’s panic-riddled voice turns a few heads at a table nearby, and my cheeks burn. Great, we’re announcing that I have epilepsy to the world now. Awesome. Just awesome.

“I do know it, babe. I’ve sat up and watched. I check her every ten fucking minutes. The worry isn’t going to go away if we’re living with her. Hell, she hasn’t been out of my sight for days, and I still worry every minute. But what does that do for her? How is that helping any of us?” My dad gets up from the booth and marches away a few steps, rubbing at the back of his neck. He pivots near the kitchen door and makes his way back to us, but he doesn’t sit down.

“Jaden, we’ll move your clothes over today. We’ll stay in town for a few more days just in case, but it’s time to try.” My father doesn’t move his gaze from me, purposely not acknowledging the huffing sounds my mom is making.

“Thank you,” I say, slipping out of the booth and wrapping my arms around his wide chest. I close my eyes as I lay my cheek over his heart, and he kisses the top of my head.

“Go on and get your stuff,” he says, letting go of our embrace. “Your mom and I are going to talk.”

I glance to my mom. Her eyes are stoic, but the quiver in her bottom lip lets me know she’s going to bend. She doesn’t want to, but she will. And that scares her.

I text Bryson on my way up to the hotel room, letting him know that I’ll be back in the apartment tonight, which I’m sure he’ll be thrilled about. He and my parents get along amazingly well, but there hasn’t been a second of privacy for the two of us since Amelia brought them to the hospital.

Bryson: Thank God. What can I do?

I never thought I’d tire of people offering me help. Turns out, though, I’m terrible at accepting it when I really need it. In the Before Brain Break times, which is how I am affectionately referring to the scene I made on the tennis court, I would have swooned over Bryson’s constant offers to wash dishes and do my laundry. Now, I’d give anything for people to let me drop the damn detergent pods in myself.

Me: I’ll just see you there tonight.

Bryson: I can get out of practice early.

He keeps doing that, taking liberties with his coach, and I don’t want him to. It’s nice that the team is being accommodating for him, probably because our couple image has permeated the university’s sports brand for the last month. And since my very public seizure, the sympathy wave has been constant. I don’t like it. I don’t want the constant reminders of what happened to me, but I get that people are just trying to be nice. At what point do comments on social media start to become about the commenter, though, rather than the person they are supposedly supporting? It feels a bit like people are trying to one-up one another in how much they stand by me. Only a handful are literally by my side, and I’d really like those few to give me a damn break.

Me: I don’t think making sure your girlfriend eats dinner is a good excuse. I’ll be fine. See you at 7.

My phone buzzes with his response, and I chuckle at the selfie he sent of his pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes. I send him one back of my very set-in-stone, adamant face. We leave it at that.

I wanted to surprise Taryn, but now that I’m in our apartment while she’s at practice, I’m regretting not giving her advance warning. I’m staring at a pair of her very stringlike panties and what I think are Corbin’s boxers on the floor in front of our sofa. I was hoping to lie down and attempt to take a nap on this sofa. Now, I’m thinking about ordering a crate of Lysol.

I grab the tongs from our kitchen drawer and promptly remove the undergarments, tossing them into Taryn’s room and quickly shutting the door lest I spot more evidence of what’s been going on with my roommate while I’ve been gone. I’m starting to run the load of dishes—tongs included—when I hear the jangle of her beaded key chain against our door. I let her get fully inside before scaring the shit out of her.

“I’m home,” I announce. She flattens her back against the door, and I snicker.

“It’s good to know that if there’s an intruder, you’re shutting yourself inside,” I laugh out.

She blinks, her expression blank and cheeks colorless for a few seconds. She steps into the room after shaking her head and muttering “Bitch” under her breath.

“You missed me,” I say, stepping out of the kitchen and opening my arms for her incoming hug.