"He's a breath of fresh air. The happiness to my sadness. The calm to my anxiety. He's an equal and opposite force, blocking me from the course of self-hatred I've been hurdling down my entire life."
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Mikaela Martin is almost certain quarterbac...
For the next month, I visit Peyton in the hospital whenever Denise invites me, which is usually a couple times a week. Each visit is harder than the last, because Peyton's eyes don't light up when I walk into the room. I think he likes the idea of dating me, but actually dating me isn't all that exciting for him.
I'm determined to prove him wrong. I have to. I can't give up.
I know things will be different when he's home. There isn't much we can do at the hospital, especially because most visits are after school, and by then, he's exhausted from physical and occupational therapy. We tried to go for a walk once, but Peyton was so tired we had to turn around before we got to the elevator. He apologized over and over, his face bright red, until he fell asleep.
When he's home, we can go back to normal, or at least semi-normal. We can watch movies on his couch. We can cuddle. We can have conversations that doctors and parents aren't at risk of overhearing. Denise is almost always in earshot, so we can't really talk about our relationship that much.
That is, if we even have one anymore. Peyton hasn't referred to me as his girlfriend since the first time I visited.
After every visit, I cry in my car, and then I put on a brave face, drive home, and throw all my effort into homework. For the first time in my life, I'm in danger of getting a B. Well, a B-plus, but still. Mr. Quentin doesn't care that I have anxiety or a doctor's note saying teachers should go easy on me. He still calls on me more than any other student. When I got an answer wrong in class last week, he accused me of not doing the reading, even though I did.
The light at the end of the tunnel is December fifteenth. That's when Peyton comes home. Ten days. Ten more days.
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A gasp escapes my lips. I have a text from Peyton. It's December sixteenth, which means he's been home for a day and a half. Which means I've been anxiously awaiting a call or text for thirty-six—almost thirty-seven—hours.
Now I have one, and it's the first step back towards normal.
Breathe, Mikaela.
Peyton: Hi Mikaela wanna come over tomorrow
Me: Yes!
I leave my phone unlocked. Waiting for it to recognize my face or, worse, having to type in six whole numbers before I can see what Peyton has to say is a terrible prospect. Every five minutes, I tap the screen, ready for him to tell me when to visit, and then a realization sends tears to my forever-damp eyes. He probably won't text me until tomorrow.
This Peyton doesn't remember that I feel stressed when my plans aren't set in stone or that leaving things up in the air is far too much for my anxious heart. Before the accident, Peyton knew that having a general idea of how my day will go quells the anxious bubble that resides in my chest. Whenever we made plans, he made sure not to leave out any details.
