AN: uh. I thought I was ready for your responses for that last chapter. Guys... I was NOT ready, lolz.

This story is about love and loss and how devastating life can be. If you flounced after the last chapter, I get it. If you're still reading... thank you, I really appreciate you sticking with it. It's not going to be smooth, there's some questionable decisions all round, but we'll get there 😉

Happy Halloween!

Chapter 21

The screech of metal, of jerking forward and being shoved back hard, of weight and heat and pain.

Voices near my head, a shrill ringing in my ears.

"Come on guys, get a move on! We've lost one already, let's not lose another. I want her out now! Now, goddamn it!"

Everything around me vibrates, dull sounds, dull shouts, dulled voices…

I wake with a start. A gasp of a breath, heart thudding hard in my chest. It's dark, and the house is quiet, moonlight bright on the end of my bed.

It's always the same dream. I'm not sure whether it's real, but I dream it every night. Sometimes I think I hear Rose screaming. Sometimes I think I hear Jasper swear.

Snatches of during, maybe. But when I try to actually remember… there's nothing.

I roll over slowly, stretching out heavy and sore limbs. The boot walker is like a lead weight, straps digging in uncomfortably. Wincing, I sit up slowly, pain radiating sharply through my lower leg and then receding to a throb.

A glance at my cell tells me it's just past 2 am, which means I've slept for more than twelve hours solid. The desk chair Edward occupied earlier, long empty. The exhaustion though… that remains. It's a bone-crushing tiredness that makes my head swim and my whole body feel foreign.

Oz stirs as I switch on my light by my bed, shuffling so he can lay a paw and a head on my lap. I have to nudge him away gently so I can get to the bathroom down the hall. It's effort, looping my arms through crutches, pulling myself to stand.

Ever faithful, Oz leads the way, nudging the bathroom door open for me with his nose. He waits patiently, before returning to my room, hopping up onto the bed and circling around until he finds the spot he likes the most.

Reaching for the glass of water on my bedside table, the picture of me and Edward that I looked at yesterday morning catches my eye. It's not where I left it; instead it's laid on top of the book I've been trying and failing to read.

Picking it up, I wonder whether he saw it and left it there on purpose. The thought of him knowing I was looking at it before I saw him… I cringe. My shoulders hunching, the anxiety stinging.

I look at our happy faces, his inked arm draped around me, and turn it over, ready to hide it again. And there, penciled in small block capitals, are two words that make my throat tighten and tears gather hot behind my eyes.

Text me.

...

Rose arrives at the front door a week later with no warning, a scowl on her face and an attitude to match.

"I'm not letting you do this anymore," she says bluntly, sitting herself on the chair at my desk. "Pushing everyone away that loves you. We care, Bella. We're all fucking worried sick. You need to snap the fuck out of whatever this is. This isn't healthy."

She gestures around at my closed blinds, hair that I haven't bothered brushing in days, and my baggy pajama top stained with milk from a bowl of Cheerios this morning.

The problem is that it's easy for other people to say things like, 'snap out of it', but the reality… it's much, much harder.

I think about protesting, about arguing, but Rose crosses her arms, her expression daring me.

"Your mom has an appointment. I'm taking you to PT. Now get in the shower, you stink."

…

Slouched in a high-backed hospital chair with wipeable, blue fabric, I drum fingers against the matching padded armrests. I don't even know why I notice them, but having spent a large part of a year in hospital, the decor is something I've begun to rate in my head.

I vaguely wonder whether there's a market for hospital interior designers, because surely they can be better.

Surely.

Blue is an improvement on mottled puke-green, at any rate.

The door to the right of me opens, Austin stepping out of his office wearing his usual navy polo shirt, a clipboard in hand and a pen tucked behind his ear. New sneakers squeak against non-slip floors as he walks toward me. His hair is an absolute mess and the circles under his eyes are darker than mine, which is saying something.

"Late night?"

"Could say that. Went to a sports bar and watched some ice hockey with some buddies, next minute you know I'm in a club and it's 3 am," he tells me, voice rough and eyes blood-shot.

"Lucky you."

"Hey, that's gonna be you in the next couple of years. You're gonna be able to do anything you want."

"Until the titanium starts degrading and they have to chop my foot off?" I say, glumly. "They warned me, it's not going to see me through life."

Austin shrugs.

"Life is what you make it. Currently, you're making it morose. Where's your sass gone?"

I rub at my face. Feeling angry and sad and just fucking fed-up.

"My best friend who died? It was his birthday last week… I had a seizure in front of a restaurant full of people. I've had to up my meds. They want to do yet another MRI on my brain, and I'm not making any fucking progress here. I'm watching everyone move on with their lives, and I'm just stuck in a never-ending loop of appointments. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I just feel… pretty fucking shitty all the time."

Looking down at my hands, I pick determinedly at nail polish on my thumb, berating myself for unloading to Austin when he's not even anywhere near being my psychiatrist. I feel him sit himself down beside me as I use the cuff of my hoodie to wipe away tears sneaking down my face.

"But," he says, nudging me slightly with his elbow. "Your CT scan went well?" The clipboard is pushed toward me, notes from Dr. Gendry visible.

I make a strangled noise of agreement.

"And you've been massaging and practicing your daily stretches for the past month?"

"Every day, twice a day. And extra massages for circulation, and all the healthy food and supplements my sister-in-law recommended for healing," I respond, dragging the words through my mouth with a sigh. I bring my good leg up to my chest and put my chin on my knee.

The sound of Austin tapping his pen against his clipboard back and forth fast makes me meet his eyes.

"So I think you're ready to bear some weight on that ankle of yours. How's that for progress?"

My head leaves my knee jerkily, staring at him in surprise.

"Today?"

"Yeah. How do you feel about that?"

I sit back in the chair, Austin ducking his head so he can see my eyes.

"Honestly?" I half laugh. "Really nervous. Like, what if I can't?"

"You can. And I wouldn't be suggesting it if I didn't think it was time. You've got to keep your boot on, and walk with your crutches, but you're really on the road to ditching all of those now. Getting independent."

"If you're sure," I say, doubt crowding my mind.

If anything, this year has taught me I shouldn't get my hopes up. Recovery from trauma injuries has been anything but easy.

Some people, like Rose, are lucky. She was banged up, but largely unscathed. Maybe emotionally scarred, but physically? She walked away.

Jasper was unlucky. He lost his life.

And then there's me. Lucky to have survived. Unlucky enough to be left recovering months and months later.

"I'm sure," Austin says, resolutely. "Let's start off with some stretches with the boot off, get the blood going a little… and then we'll get you up and taking a few steps."

He picks up my purse, shouldering it as we walk down the corridor to the gym. Well, he walks. I swing and step with the crutches.

The gym is a large, open room, with lots of specialized equipment. I've been coming here for months, first for PT on my right arm, then for walking with crutches, and now that I've had the third and final surgery on my ankle, actually walking.

There's already an army vet being put through his paces on a treadmill with one of the other therapists, wearing new prosthetics. He smiles, and I smile back. It's not the first time I've seen him here, and there's a kind of solidarity in that.

Shrugging off my hoodie, I twist awkwardly in the chair to hang it off the back as Rose appears, eyes searching as she pauses in the doorway. She spots me and hurries over, bag of chips and a bottle of Coke in her hand.

"'Sup Austin," she greets, sitting down heavily. She looks between us. "What's going on?"

Austin's eyebrows raise in a way that tells me he's not going to tell her. He wants me to.

"He thinks I'm ready… to maybe do some walking. Weight bearing," I mumble.

"Definitely ready," Austin reassures me.

"Seriously?" She takes my hand and squeezes it hard, her excitement palpable. "Bella, this is amazing. Hold on. Hold on." She lets go, digging in her bag and pulling out her digital camera. My eyes narrow and she shrugs her shoulders. "For your mom. This is a big fucking deal, right?"

And she's right. It is a big fucking deal.

...

Austin watches as I take my boot off. It feels weird, and it looks even weirder: my leg toothpick-like from muscle atrophy.

I go through my stretches under his watchful eye, enjoying being able to feel the soft padded mats underneath my foot. It's a little taste of freedom. Of what could be around the corner. But at this point, I refuse to get my hopes up.

"Great. Got some nice flexibility going on there," Austin says, approvingly. "So, are you ready?"

I nod, even though I don't feel ready. Even though this is what I've wanted and been denied for such a long time.

It would've been a quicker recovery if they'd amputated my foot to begin with, but Mom and Dad begged them not to. They put in a concrete replacement while they figured out what to do, and that took months; specialist after specialist, appointment after appointment until finally there was a plan.

"Guess we'll find out."

I replace my boot, gripping my crutches tightly as I use them to get up, before gently putting my foot on the floor, a ripple of nerves making me bite my lip.

"Now just go with what feels comfortable," Austin tells me.

"Comfortable, like no pain, or…"

"Exactly that. No pain, no discomfort."

I take a breath and very slowly apply weight; when it becomes uncomfortable, I move my good leg.

And all of a sudden I'm more mobile than I've been in almost a whole year. Austin follows me as step by shaky baby step, I walk. Sort of. It's a hobble, stiff and uneven.

I make it between the two cones he's set out, and when I turn, a rush of giddiness finally makes me smile. Rose is beaming as she holds the camera, giving me a thumbs up from behind it.

"Shall we see where you are on the weight bearing? Fifty percent is you standing normally, your body weight spread evenly."

He returns seconds later, scale in hand, placing it at my feet.

"Foot on this. And put as much weight on as is comfortable. Good." He scribbles notes down, before looking at me from under his hair.

"So you're ninety-five lbs according to your last weigh in, and pushing six and a half pounds, so that's just under six percent."

"Six percent?" I say, disappointed. "It feels way more than that. Like, way more."

"It's a start, and completely normal," Austin confirms, getting to his feet. "Completely normal," he emphasises when I open my mouth. "Now I want you to practice at home, and when you come back in a couple of days, you'll probably find you've doubled that. By the end of the week we're gonna be looking at thirty percent. Week after, you should be able to bear your weight evenly."

…

Ben is in the foyer, talking to the lady at reception, when Rose and I emerge from the corridor. I slow down, caught between wanting to hide and my own sense of politeness. Before I can make a decision, he spots us anyway.

"What are you doing?" Rose says, turning when she realizes I've stopped. "Oh. Hi, Ben." She doesn't look too happy to see him as he walks over to us. She's dismissive, and I feel bad.

"Hey."

I can feel my face heat.

"How are you feeling?" he asks me.

"Okay, thank you. Really embarrassed though."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about."

He brushes it aside easily, as if having a seizure was nothing. And I'm not sure whether being so dismissive is a good thing or a bad thing.

He searches my face, then grins.

"Gotta say, never had a chick fall at my feet quite like that when I've tried giving them my number."

Rose mutters something under her breath, flicking blonde hair over her shoulder. "I'll meet you at the car. See you, Ben."

"Um. Yeah, sorry. Do I win any prizes?"

"Actually take my number this time?" he says. "Maybe I can take you out. Movie, or something? Ice cream? You seem like you could do with some fun."

My mouth opens and closes, because I wasn't really expecting him to ask me that. Be so forward. I mean, I think that's just how he is, but still.

Me?

My gut reaction is to say no, but I hesitate.

And I guess this might be good for me, even if it's just getting out of the house.

"Okay," I tell him. "That actually sounds… good."

"Sweet." He takes out his cell from his pocket. "What's your number?"

...

Rose leans against her car when I find her, arms folded. She gives me a disapproving look.

"What?"

"Really?"

"Really, what?"

"Ben."

I sigh, waiting for her to open the door for me. I lower myself slowly into the passenger seat, shrugging out of my crutches one by one so Rose can take them and slide them across the back seat.

"I don't want to be sad anymore," I confess, once she's sat in the driver's seat. "You're right. I need to snap out of this."

Rose is silent, tongue darting out to wet dry lips.

"And you think Ben is the way to do that? Ben Cheney? Ben Cheney who leapt over a bonfire with people throwing aerosol cans on it? The Ben Cheney who streaked butt-naked across the field at state after we won?"

"You said he wasn't that bad," I retort. "Besides, if me having a seizure in front of him didn't scare him off, maybe... maybe he's matured. Maybe he's a decent person."

"What about—"

I already know what she's going to say, and my voice cuts across her before she can utter his name.

"It's ice cream, or a movie. I'm not, like, eloping with him. It's not even like it's a date or anything."

She scrutinizes me and then nods her head, sullen and pouty. And sometimes I have no idea how Heidi puts up with her because she's exhausting.

"Fine. If it's what you want," she says, and then much softer. "I just want you to be happy. That's all."

"I know," I sigh. The familiar wave of tension creeping up my spine as she starts the engine. It rumbles to life and my fingers tighten on the seat. And I'm not even sure how she does it…

Live. Move on. Be happy.

I should ask her, but for some reason I can't.

"But if you're saying yes to Ben fucking Cheney, then you're saying yes to coming to Wendy's with me. Need to fatten you up. I'm sure ninety-five pounds at your height is like, anorexic, or something."

She's probably right, but I don't have a problem with food. I'm just not hungry a lot of the time.

...

Rose makes sure we're sitting somewhere quiet, with extra room for my crutches and to prop my leg up if I need to.

She slides in the seat across from me, fries scattered over a tray, spilling out of the card containers, and I feel like there's… distance between us. Ignoring your friends for months will do that, I guess.

"You haven't texted Ned," she says, matter-of-factly. "He's worried about you."

I stare out the window at people hurrying past. My stomach clenches uncomfortably. I haven't texted him. But I haven't texted anyone else either.

"How's your mom?" I deflect.

"Will you at least think about letting him know you're okay?" Rose tries again.

My eyes find the table, a tight nod of my head.

Rose sighs, then her face brightens. "My mom? She's good. Coming up five months sober now."

"That's really great." The words sound robotic, even though I do mean it. It is good news. Rose looks at me her brow creased.

"It is. I know it's a long road, and I'm always on at her to call her sponsor if she feels weak, but she's almost like how she was before Dad left. She's got interviews this week too."

"I'm really happy for her, and you."

Rose shrugs. "I think getting her into rehab and not going to college last year was for the best… I mean, even if she hadn't had these issues. I'm not sure I could've gone anyway. Too much going on. You, Jazz, the funeral, trying to deal with all of that."

I fiddle with the paper straw until it's rolled into a ball between my fingers before punching the straw through the plastic lid and taking a sip of cola. It tastes too watery and sugary.

"I didn't even get to say goodbye."

"You were fighting for your life, no one held it against you."

She's reading me wrong. It's not about other people and what they think about me not being there.

"I still—I feel bad. About not being there to say goodbye. Not having that closure. I feel even shittier for not being able to remember."

Rose takes a large bite out of her burger.

"We've had this conversation before," she says.

There's no judgement there though, just a simple statement of fact.

I frown. If we did have this conversation before I don't remember that either.

"Tell me again. About that day? I'm not drugged up to my eyeballs on morphine now."

Rose smiles.

"Okay. Well, we decided to go camping. Heidi had a thing with her parents but Jasper was adamant because he wanted to do something to 'commemorate' our friendship…"

…

The doorbell goes, Oz immediately bounding to the door, barking. I maneuver myself, putting a little weight on my right ankle, practicing like Austin wanted. Checking my reflection in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs one last time, I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Mom curled it, and now it's half up, half down. It surprised her, I think, when I told her I was going out.

With a guy, especially.

And I know it's only ice cream, and I'm not even sure whether it classifies as a date or just… sort-of-friends. But I still… feel sort of like a normal nineteen-year-old girl. Kind of nervous, full of self-doubt and reservations.

I open the door despite them, Ben standing on the porch, hands tucked into his pockets.

"Hey," he says, flashing me a smile. "You look really pretty."

And I think maybe this is a date after all.