Shredded

Chapter 25 Z

She’s not coming.

I tell myself I didn’t expect her to, that I didn’t want her to, but deep down inside, I know the truth. I’ve been waiting for her to walk through that door ever since I got here. Waiting for her to walk in and tell me that she loves me, even though I’m a total and complete fuck-up.

Except she never comes.

Cam comes. So do Luc and Ash and Ash’s parents. Logan. Mitch. A bunch of guys from the competition come by once it’s done. Even a few members of the press camp out outside, waiting to hear what my prognosis is. But Ophelia never shows.

Not that I blame her. I did exactly what I promised her I wouldn’t do, and she walked, just like she promised me she would do.

No harm, no foul. I just didn’t expect it to hurt this badly. Hell, I didn’t know I could hurt this badly. For years I’ve been certain I was completely dead inside.

When I fell for Ophelia, I learned otherwise, but still. I thought, after everything that happened with April, that I was inoculated against feeling this kind of pain. It kind of sucks to find out that I’m not.

On the plus side, despite my complete and utter stupidity, it turns out I’m not nearly as damaged as I should be. As I wanted to be in those few, crazy moments when I lost my shit completely.

I dislocated my shoulder—not the first time that’s happened—so they popped it back in and gave me some pain pills and strict instructions to get some PT when I get back home. I also cracked a couple of ribs and sprained my wrist, so I’m wrapped up pretty tight while the painkillers take care of all that, too. They’re keeping me for observation, just to make sure they didn’t miss anything, but other than that, I’m in pretty good shape. In good enough shape that, if I take care of myself, I should be able to still make the Olympic trials in a couple of weeks.

It’s more than I deserve, more than I have any right to expect. I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I let that reporter and all the shit from my past get in my head and mess me up. And now I’ve lost Ophelia before I ever really had a chance to have her. The Olympic trials seem like a really fucking poor substitute. Still, more than I deserve, though.

“Z? You okay?”

I turn to see Ash and Luc looking at me with concern, which means I’ve once again missed whatever they were saying to me. “Sorry, guys. The Vicodin makes me fuzzy.” I blame it on the pain pills instead of my own utter stupidity.

“No problem.” Ash pats me on the shoulder. “I think we’re going to take off, then. Let you get some sleep. My mom and dad will be here in the morning to pick you up.”

“They don’t need to bother. I can take a cab.”

“Yeah, ’cuz that’s so going to happen,” he tells me with a roll of his eyes. “As soon as I’m done competing, they’ll be by to get you.”

“Thanks, man. And good luck tomorrow. To all three of you. You’re going to shred it.”

He reaches a fist out, bumps it with mine. Seconds later, Luc does the same. Cam leans down and gives me a hug. Then they file out and I’m alone again.

As usual.

The TV is tuned to some old comedy, and though it looks funny, I’m not overly interested in it. Then again, I’m not overly interested in anything else, either.

Except Ophelia, and she didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

I close my eyes, start to drift. And try to think of one goddamn reason to keep breathing. The fact that I can’t think of one isn’t exactly encouraging.

There’s a knock on the door, and I jolt upright at the sound, jarring my shoulder in the process. Ophelia, is all I can think. She came. She—

“Hey, man. Sorry to wake you up.” Mitch is standing in the doorway, a bag of food in his hand. “Let me drop this off and I’ll come back later.”

“Nah, it’s cool. I’m not really sleeping. It’s just the drugs.”

He nods, walks inside. “I brought you some tacos. Figured it’s better than the shit they serve you in here.”

“Thanks.”

He grabs a seat in the chair closest to the bed, then spends a few minutes laying out dinner for the two of us. He bought me a Coke, but he’s drinking Dr Pepper. The sight of that damn maroon can sends a fresh wave of pain through me. Which makes me feel like an even bigger pussy, which in turn pisses me off all over again. Ophelia’s fucking ruined me. Even worse, I let her.

I shove thoughts of her deep inside, lock that shit up tight. I’m not going to think about her right now. I can’t. Not with all the other crap running around in my head. Maybe later, when I’ve got my shit together again, but not now. Not yet.

I reach for a street taco that I’ve got no desire to eat, polish it off in three bites. Mitch pretty much does the same, eating without saying a word to me about the damn elephant in the room.

Eventually I can’t take the crushing weight of the silence, though, and I say, “So what happened?”

“They’re not running the story.”

I eye him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When he doesn’t say anything else, I demand, “Why not?”

“Because I told them I’d fucking crush anyone who touches the story. Not to mention sue them for every penny their fucking magazines and newspapers are worth. Most didn’t even need the threat. It’s a fucking bullshit story, one only the tabloids would touch to begin with. And by the time my lawyer was done threatening them, even they wouldn’t go near it. It’s dead, Z. It’s going nowhere.”

I close my eyes, wait for the overwhelming sense of relief to flood me, but it never comes. I’m sick of hiding, sick of running, sick of burying my fucking head and pretending the past never happened. April died. She fucking died in a way no one should ever have to die. And I’ve spent the last eleven years being too big of a fucking pussy to fucking acknowledge that. To fucking deal with it.

A tear leaks out from beneath my lashes, and Mitch clears his throat uncomfortably. “You okay?”

I dash it away with the back of my hand. Clear my throat. “Yeah, man. Thanks.”

“No problem.” I hear the rustling of foil, open my eyes to see him clearing up the food mess. “I should probably let you get some sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling a little better.”

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

He tosses the trash, then nearly runs from the room after telling me to call him if I need anything. Nice. It takes real skill to drive your girlfriend and your agent away within hours of each other, if I do say so myself.

The thought of Ophelia shreds me all over again, and I reach for my phone. I can’t help it. I check my messages, my voicemail. Nothing. She hasn’t texted, hasn’t called.

Because you’re a prick, the little voice inside me says. You’re a piece of shit who deserves to have her walk. You’ve never deserved her. Never really had her.

I start to put the phone down. Hell, I start to throw the stupid piece of shit against the nearest wall again. But in the end, I can’t. Because I still want her. Fucked up as I am, worthless as I am, I still need her. I don’t even want to talk about how pathetic that makes me.

In the end, I can’t help myself. I pull up her contact information and type in a quick text. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit send.

I spend the rest of the night with the phone clutched in my hand, waiting for her to text back.

She never does.