Crashed

Hold on as his chest shudders and breath hitches.

As his tears fall, either cleansing his soul or foreshadowing impending devastation.

“I don’t need a goddamn wheelchair!”

It’s the fourth time he’s said it, and it’s the only thing he’s said to me since waking up on the airplane. I bite my lip and watch him struggle as he glares at the nurse when she pushes the chair once again to the back of his knees without saying a word to her difficult patient. I can see him starting to tire from the exertion of getting out of the car, and walking the five feet or so toward the front door, before stopping and resting a hand on the retaining wall. The strain is so obvious that I’m not surprised when he eventually gives in and sits down.

I’m glad I texted everyone ahead of time and told them to stay inside the house and not greet us in the driveway. After watching the effort it took for him to get off the plane and into the car, I figured he might be embarrassed if he had an audience.

The paparazzi are still yelling on the other side of the closed gates, clamoring to get a picture or quote from Colton, but Sammy and his new additions to the staff are doing their job keeping this moment private, which I’m so very grateful for.

“Just give me a fucking minute,” he growls when she starts to push him, and I can see that a headache has hit him again when he puts his head in his hands, fingers bending the bill of his baseball hat, and just sits there.

I take a deep breath from my silent place on the sideline, trying to figure out what is going on with him. And after his silent breakdown on the jet, I know it’s more than just the headaches. More than the crash. Something has shifted and I can’t quite put my finger on the cause of his warring personalities.

And the fact that I can’t pinpoint the why has my nerves dancing on edge.

Colton presses his hands to the side of his hat, and I can see the tension in his shoulders as he tries to brace for the pain radiating from his head. I walk toward him, unable to resist trying to help somehow although I know there’s nothing I can really do, and just place my hands on his shoulders to let him know I’m there.

That he’s not alone.

“I don’t need a fucking nurse watching over me. I’m fine. Really,” Colton says from his partially reclined position on the chaise lounge. Everyone left shortly after our arrival, everyone but Becks and me, realizing what a surly mood Colton was in. Colton’s parked himself on the upstairs patio for the last thirty minutes because, after being trapped in the hospital for so long, he just wants to sit in the sun in peace. A peace he’s not getting since he’s been arguing with everyone about how he’s perfectly fine and just wants to be left alone.

Becks folds his arms across his chest. “We know you’re hardheaded and all, but you took quite a hit. We’re not going to leave you—”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Daniels.” Colton barks, annoyance evident in his tone as Becks steps toward him. “If I wanted your two cents, I would’ve asked.”

“Well crack open the piggy bank because I’m going to give you a whole fucking dollar’s worth,” he says as he leans in closer to Colton. “Your head hurts? You want to be a prick because you’ve been locked up in a goddamn hospital? You want sympathy that you’re not getting? Well too fucking bad. You almost died, Colton—died—so shut the fuck up and quit being an asshole to the people that care about you the most.” Becks shakes his head at him in exasperation while Colton just pulls his hat down lower over his forehead and sulks.

When Becks speaks next, his voice is the quiet, calculating calm he used with me when we were in the hotel room the night before the accident.

“You don’t want sponge baths from Nurse Ratchet downstairs? I get that too. But you have a choice to make because it’s either her, me, or Rylee washing your balls every night ’til you’re cleared by the docs. I know who I’d choose and it sure as fuck isn’t me or the large, gruff, German woman in the kitchen. I love ya, dude, but my friendship draws the line when it comes to touching your junk.” Becks leans back, his arms still crossed and his eyebrows raised. He shrugs his shoulders to reiterate the question.

When Colton doesn’t speak, but rather remains ornery and stares Becks down from beneath the brim of his cap, I step up—tired, cranky, and wanting time alone with Colton—to try and right our world again.

“I’m staying, Colton. No questions asked. I’m not leaving you here by yourself.” I just hold up my hands when he starts to argue. Stubborn asshole. “If you want to keep acting like one of the boys when they throw a tantrum, then I’ll start treating you like one.”

For the first time since we’ve been out on the patio, Colton raises his eyes to meet mine. “I think it’s time everyone leaves.” His voice is low and full of spite.

I walk closer, wanting him to know that he can push all he wants but I’m not backing down. I throw his own words back in his face. Words I’m not even sure he remembers. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Ace, but rest assured it’s going to be my way.”

I make sure Becks locked the front door on his way out before grabbing the plate of cheese and crackers to head back upstairs. I find Colton in the same location on the chaise lounge but he’s taken his hat off, head leaned back, eyes closed. I stop in the doorway and watch him. I take in the shaved patch that’s starting to grow back over his nasty scar. I note the furrow in his forehead that tells me he’s anything but at peace.