Rehab, Actors & Love

Storied Past

Dylan's POV

I hesitated before knocking on her door. I held my breath, waiting for her to open up. The longer it took her, the more nervous I got. I knocked again, not sure why I was expecting a different result.

"Go away, Evan." I heard softly from inside. I sighed before slowly opening the door, lucky it was unlocked. Then again, these doors probably don't lock. My heart sank when I saw her sitting on the ground, leaning against her bed.

I took a deep breath, still standing by the door, as I said, "Still want me to go?" I bit my lip when she turned around. I let out a small laugh, trying to ease the tension. "I mean, I know I'm not a trained PT but I can listen. Despite what the paparazzi tend to show."

Della looked at me from over her shoulder, her expression not changing. She slowly turned back around, hugging her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her knee.

I hesitated before walking across the room. In a split decision, I sat next to her. I wrapped my arm around her, surprised when she leaned her head on my shoulder.

I'm not sure how long we sat like that, not saying a word. All that could be heard was our breathing, Della's breath getting caught in her throat every once in a while when she tried to hold back her tears.

"You know," I whispered, breaking the silence. "You don't have to pretend you're okay in front of me. I have no right to judge anyone."

It took a second before I heard a sob get stuck in her throat. I wrapped my other arm around her, pulling her into my chest as she broke. I ran my fingers through her hair, letting her tears stain the front of my shirt.

I leaned my chin on the top of her head, gently rubbing circles on her back. "I know that I'm kind of a dick," I joked, smiling when I made her laugh. "But, if you want to talk, I promise I'll be less of one. For you."

I smiled when she let out another small, short laugh. I looked down at her when I felt her pull away. She hesitated before looking up at me.

"Come on," I whispered as I stood up. I reached down, holding my hands out for her to take. She hesitated before taking my hands and allowing me to help her.

Without letting go of one of her hands, I led her over to the couch under the window. We sat down and I waited for her to say something.

"You're talking more," I said, trying to sound positive. She nodded, biting her lip. She opened her mouth, hesitating.

"Hey," I said, squeezing her hand. "It's okay. You can tell me anything."

Still biting her lip, she slowly reached up and pulled off her scarf. I tried not to stare at her scars, but it was hard. They were healed over, but they looked deep. She hesitated before finally deciding to rewrap her scarf around her neck.

"It happened about a little over a year ago," she started, her voice soft. "I was on my way home from class one night when another car ran the red light."

"Wait," I said slowly, "a car accident did that to you? How?"

"It was technically the seatbelt."

"What happened in the accident?" I asked, softly.

"I was hit by a drunk driver," she said, looking away from me. "I woke up in the hospital a few hours later, my throat burning. I tried to call out but. . . I couldn't speak."

She stopped talking so she could take a deep breath. I noticed she had to do that a lot. Stop talking, take a breath, and sometimes drink water before she could keep going. The first time she spoke to me, she sounded like she had a sore throat. The more she's spoken, the better her voice has sounded. It was still rough and dry, but it was better.

I waited patiently for her to continue with her story, not wanting to say anything that would make her feel rushed.

"My parents came in and the doctor explained what happened. He explained that I had been in a car accident. He explained that both my legs were crushed, my left one worse. I lifted my hand up to my throat. . . I still remember the tears streaming down my bruised cheeks when they told me that the seatbelt had cut into my throat, damaging my vocal cords."

She cleared her throat when her voice cracked. My eyes widened when the simple act of clearing her throat caused her to go into a coughing attack. I instantly leaned over and started rubbing her back as she reached up and pressed her hands against her throat.

As she calmed down, I jumped up and grabbed her water bottle off her bedside table. I sat back down and handed it to her. I waited as she took small, short sips.

"Are you okay?" I asked gently. She looked up at me, nodding slightly.

I nodded, smiling down at her. "So," I said, clearing my throat. "Tell me about this singing thing. Evan says you basically devoted your life to it."

Della smiled, a blush creeping its way onto her cheeks. She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"Ever since I was little, I've sung. It started with singing at church and around the house. When I got older, I asked my parents if that could be my thing."

"Your thing?" I smirked, sending her a playful look. I smiled as her blush got darker.

"Yeah," she stuttered, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Kinda like how acting is your thing, singing became mine. . . Anyway, they put me in lessons. I was in choirs and worked with vocal coaches. Before I knew it, I became nationally ranked."

"Nationally ranked? Damn," I said, not hiding my surprise. She retucked the same piece of hair behind her ear even though it hadn't moved from when she did it earlier. I smiled when I realized that was probably something she did when she got nervous.

"It was my life," she said, her whole demeanor changing. "And after the accident. . . It was taken from me."

Her voice broke as her eyes filled with tears. I hesitated before grabbing her hand.

"My whole life was taken from me and part of me. . ." A tear streamed down her cheek as she didn't finish her sentence.

"Part of you what, Della?" I asked gently, not wanting to push her as I reached up and caught her tear with my thumb.

She took a shaky breath as she hesitated. She slowly looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. "Part of me wishes I hadn't survived the crash," she whispered.

"Della," I said, my heart breaking. I tightened my hold on her hand and scooted closer to her. "You can't. . . You can't say that."

"Why not?" She scoffed, the anger she's probably been holding back finally coming out. "Singing was my whole life, Dylan. Literally. I had a full-ride scholarship to Juilliard to study voice. The accident ruined that. The accident took away the one thing I have devoted my whole life to. The accident destroyed, not just my legs, but me."

"I understand," I said softly. "But wishing you hadn't survived?" I stuttered, unsure of how to help her feel better about everything.

But could I help her? Singing was her life and the accident took that from her.

"Yeah well," Della sighed. "Sometimes not surviving is easier than struggling to survive."