New Life Read Online Free Page B

how to be a content single. Some
nights were harder than others.
    The gym, I decided. That was what I needed to
flush the toxic week from my system and rouse endorphins to dispel
my gloom. Unfortunately, I had to go home for my gym bag, and the
moment I collapsed on the couch, I knew I wasn’t going out again. I
cracked a beer and settled in to solve a cold case in some
made-for-TV movie. I was able to stop thinking about work and
concentrate completely on solving the case—way before the TV
detective, I might add.
    A bag of microwave popcorn later, I was
engrossed in a cheesy “based on true events” movie about a guy
who’d been beaten nearly to death and how he’d recovered. As I
watched the actor pretend to learn to walk, talk, and feed himself
again while losing his friends and girlfriend, I couldn’t stop
thinking about Jason. Was this truly what it had been like for him,
rebuilding his life from scratch?
    Jason’s dry sense of humor and seeming lack
of bitterness about his situation impressed me. He was different
from everybody I knew, particularly my ambitious and impatient
ex-boyfriend. Jason had a stillness about him, a sense of depth and
thoughtfulness that intrigued me more than I cared to admit. I
wanted learn more about the man he’d been before the accident and
the person he’d become, but it wasn’t as if our paths naturally
crossed. Setting an official “date” might give him the wrong
impression, so how could I casually bump into him? That was harder
to solve than the cold case in that movie.
     

Chapter Four
    “Have you been keeping up on your bills? It’s
very important you make your payments. You don’t want your
electricity or water shut off. I can help you get organized, or set
up automatic payments from your account. That might be best.”
    That was my dad.
    “Have you been going to your group? It’s very
important you keep trying to make connections with people. Being
alone too much isn’t healthy. Do you have any new friends?”
    That was my mom.
    “Keep copies of everything. That’s going to
be important come tax season.” Dad.
    “Are you eating right? You can’t survive on
frozen dinners or Chinese carryout. You have to have fresh fruits
and vegetables. And it’s important you keep up with your physical
therapy. Are you doing the exercises Dr. Gorman gave you?” Mom.
    “I hope you’re remembering to lock up. Be
very careful walking in your neighborhood. It’s not that safe.”
Dad.
    “You still have the pepper spray I bought
you?” Mom.
    “If you need money, I can write you a check.”
Dad.
    Me: “No, thanks. I don’t need anything.
You’ve already helped me more than enough.” I pointed at Katie
charging past on the field. “Look. I think she’s setting up to make
a goal.”
    My parents’ spotlight finally turned away
from me, and I relaxed on the hard wooden bleacher as best I could
with my aching hip. I reminded myself that it was normal for
parents to be concerned about their children even under regular
circumstances. It was hard for them to let go and trust that a
twenty-four-year-old knew what he was doing. But every time they
started grilling me with questions, doubting me with their tone,
undermining me with their comments, I fought to hold back a surge
of resentment.
    Dr. Gorman had given me techniques for
controlling the spurts of emotion I’d experienced since the
accident. Sudden sorrow or anger were symptoms of my brain injury.
I’d learned to mostly control crying jags in public places or
red-faced shouting rages, but when I was around my parents, the
tension grew inside me like a spring coiling tighter and tighter.
All I could do was bite back my anger and press it down.
    Katie’s team made a goal, and everyone jumped
up to cheer. I rubbed my hip and leaned toward Mom. “I’ve got to
walk a little bit.”
    “Your leg hurting? I’ll come with you.”
    “No. You watch Katie.” I made my way down the
bleachers to the packed dirt with tufts