She holds out her phone and shows me a post she put up less than an hour ago. It’s of me, on the couch, hair pulled up in a messy bun, my tablet in my lap, laughing at something Harley or London said.
It already has close to a thousand likes and a hundred comments, many of them wishing me well and happy to see that I’m back in action.
“We can call it your recovery journal. Maybe you can start with a couple of days a week on your profile and you can share it with the Spark House account. If you find it therapeutic, you can post more often,” Harley says, her expression hopeful.
“I love the idea.” And it’s a great way for me to contribute in a meaningful way. For the first time since I came home from the hospital, I have something to be genuinely excited about and a sense of purpose again.
12
I PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE KNOCKED FIRST
DECLAN
I try to time getting home from work and running errands so that I don’t run into London and Harley. Is it a wuss move? Yup. Do I feel bad about avoiding them? Not particularly, no.
I can handle Harley because, well, she’s Harley. She’s soft and sweet and understanding and forgiving. London and I pre-Avery’s accident used to get along fine, but London post-accident is like an angry mama bear. I get it, the three of them are super tight and always have been, and the accident scared them.
So I understand why London is pissed at me, but it’s been weeks and I still get the death glare every time I see her. Our regularly scheduled finance meeting is coming up, and suffice it to say, I’m not looking forward to it. I sent London the latest reports and told her they were not going to have the margin they planned for. But London has been dodging me, quick to tell me we can deal with things later, when she isn’t pulling double duty.
Avery said it really isn’t like London to hold a grudge and reassures me that she’ll get over it. I’m not so sure I agree, but I’m figuring by the end of the next decade, she may find it in her heart to forgive me. Hopefully. If I’m lucky.
Thankfully, they’re getting ready to leave when I walk in the door, so I don’t have to deal with London’s frostiness for too long.
“We’ll be back on Thursday morning, okay? And remember, if you need us to handle appointments, or you want us to pick up any other things you might need, just let us know.” London leans down to hug her sister. “You’re almost out of crunchy peanut butter, FYI.”
I’m not sure what kind of things Avery might need that I can’t get for her, but I hold up a grocery bag, pleased with myself for noticing that we were low on the PB before I left this morning. “I picked some up on the way home.”
“Oh, well that’s good.” London almost seems disappointed by my competence and thoughtfulness.
“We still on for that finance meeting, or do you need a little more time to get things together?” I ask.
“Let me get back to you on that.” London turns back to Avery.
“Sure thing. I just don’t want to get too behind on the quarterly.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Avery asks.
“Oh no, I’ve got it handled.” She waves Avery’s worry away. “We’ll call you tomorrow to check in. And as soon as you get the go-ahead, we can plan an afternoon for you to come over or come to Spark House, or whatever you want. I’m sure you’re ready for a change of scenery.”
I relax a little once Avery’s sisters leave. It’s as if I’m being carefully observed when they’re here, and it makes me antsy.
While I prepare dinner, Avery fills me in on her visit with her sisters.
“Harley suggested I start a recovery journal, but more of a visual one that I can share on our social media.”
“That sounds cool; more like something that Harley would do, though, isn’t it?” I chop vegetables for the salad, making sure the pieces are all bite-sized.
“It usually is, but I’ve been helping out with that a bit since I’ve been home.”
“Oh?” I pause my chopping. “I didn’t realize that.”
“Other than physical therapy and doctor’s appointments, I’m lying around, waiting to heal, so I started managing some of the social media posts for Harley. She has this whole system set up where she creates posts and puts them in a document with the text and images. I followed her lead and started scheduling things for her and I, uh … posted a couple of videos last week.”
I resume my chopping. “Videos? Of what?”
“Oh, you know.” She waves her phone around in the air and mutters, “Physical therapy stuff. You doing push-ups.”