“How did you feel about therapy today?” I ask as I fill the sink with soap and hot water. “That’s pretty awesome, about the swimming.”
“It’s no big deal,” he says grudgingly. “I used to be able to do a ton more laps than that.”
The unspoken end of that sentence—before the accident—lays between us like dead weight. It pulls us down and as the familiar guilt threatens to smother me, I wish I could come up with a way to talk to him. Wish I could find the words to make things between us okay.
But how can anything be okay when Logan is injured, paralyzed, because of me? Because of my dream? It can’t be. Not when my dream stole Logan’s so completely. Not when it stole my parents’ lives and ripped my whole damn family apart.
I clear my throat, try again. “Still, it’s really good, right? Brad says you’re doing great.”
“It’s not snowboarding, but it’s okay, I guess. For a cripple.”
I clench my fists, refusing to let him push my buttons. It’s hard, though, when he knows all the right ones to poke at.
“So, what’d you do today? Besides PT, I mean.”
He groans. “Really? Is this the small-talk part of the evening, then?”
“Come on, Logan. I’m trying here.” I turn to face him, but he’s already spinning away.
“Do you want an award for that?” he asks as he rolls through the kitchen and down the hall. “Ash Lewis, for trying. It can go right up there next to my award for swimming six lousy lengths of the pool.”
I tell myself I should let him go, that he’s got every right to be a pissed-off little shit, but I’m slamming the faucet closed and taking off after him before I even make the conscious decision to do so.
“You don’t get to just walk away from me when I’m trying to talk to you!” I tell him as I trail him down the hallway.
“News flash, loser. I’m not walking anywhere.”
Fuck. “Okay, that was a lousy choice of words.”
He snorts. “No shit, Sherlock.”
I break into a jog, get in front of him to break his forward momentum. “Can we talk about this?”
“Talk about what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The weather, maybe? Or how about the fact that you’ve been a total jackass to me for the last five days?”
“I’m sorry, is the cripple not living up to your expectations?”
“Will you stop calling yourself that!”
“Will you stop treating me like one if I do?”
“I have never—”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You gave up snowboarding, got that crappy job at the resort—”
“That crappy job comes with benefits, which—in case you haven’t noticed—are pretty damn important right now. Unless you want me to go through all the life insurance money at once.”
“You made a lot more boarding and you know it. Even without insurance benefits, we’d be better off.”
I force a calmness into my tone that I’m far from feeling. “I’m not doing this with you again.”
“Of course not. I’m just a kid, right? Just a cripple who doesn’t deserve a vote in anything that happens in this family.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You didn’t have to. What did Mom used to say when we fought? Actions speak louder than words.”