“Best-Worst Days,” Fiction, Nicole Zelniker.

Nicole Zelniker (she/they) is the author of several books, including FROM WHERE WE ARE and WE ARE MADE OF SCARS & STARLIGHT, which have been nominated for Pushcart Prizes, and the young adult novel ALL I KNOW SO FAR. In their free time, Nicole enjoys re-reading their favorite books, talking about the intersection of queerness and disability on the internet, and bothering her devastatingly cute tabby cat, Artemis. Keep up with them on TikTok at @nicolewritesbooks and on Instagram, Bluesky, and Threads as @nicolezelniker.

*

The worst part isn’t the pain, although there is plenty of that. Like a knife between her ribs, embedded in her chest so that she can’t breathe around it. The ground is wrong underneath her, nebulous and unsteadying where it’s always been so solid, and the agony on her left side is too hot, hot, hot and she tries to pull in a breath, gasping like a fish, but there is no air. Someone screams, and then another, and another. With tremendous effort, Valarie turns on her side – the right, not the left, not the burning – and someone is running toward her.

That, right there. That is the worst part. The look on Olive’s beautiful face, made golden-brown in the sun, as she bends over Valarie. Her mouth opens in a perfect O, her dark eyes huge with fear. “Valarie?”

Olive, Valarie says, or tries to say, but she coughs instead, dizzying and painful, her whole body wracked with the intensity of it. She reaches for Olive, but her whole left side seizes up, and her wrist up through her forearm is electric with agony. There is a widening pool of blood on the pavement and Valarie thinks it’s probably hers, but she's not sure how it got there. Olive’s hands slip under her head, cupping it under Valarie’s ponytail, wild curls attempting to break free of their elastic prison. Valarie is shaking, but she isn’t cold, despite the cool fall air on her cheeks. She coughs again, hard and dry. Tastes metal at the back of her throat. Blood spatters on Olive’s cheeks, but she doesn’t flinch away.

But then Olive is moving backwards, or someone is moving her backwards, and Olive struggles for a moment before a woman in her late twenties with umber skin and thick locs takes up the shrinking field of Valarie’s vision. Medic, Valarie’s brain supplies. There’s a

crunch

in her chest and her lips part around a silent scream, her body desperately working to breathe.

I’m dying, she thinks, but that can’t be right. She can’t die

            before she sees Olive again, before she knows Olive is okay. She can’t die before she can say her girlfriend’s name, tell Olive that she loves her.

            But the world

            spins,

            and Valarie sees stars, and she's on a stretcher between one blink and the next. She blinks

            again

            and she is in an ambulance, and her chest is

            tight,

                        tight,

tightit hurts it

                        fucking

            hurts and then

            there is Olive, hand in hers, her lips moving to make

                        Valarie’s

                                    name.

*

When Valarie opens her eyes again, she is in a hospital room. The night sky outside the window pane is a deep blue, and the overhead lights are dim. A large curtain blocks the fluorescents from the hallway, which Valarie thinks is a blessing. Her head is killing her and her limbs are obscenely heavy.

She sits almost upright against a mound of pillows. She tries to turn and get a better look, then winces at the immediate stabbing in her chest.

A stirring to her left. “Valarie?”

“Olive,” Valarie whispers, then immediately regrets it when it sends her into a coughing fit. Her lungs strain against the confines of her chest and she writhes with the shooting pain along her side.

“Shh, don’t talk, baby. You’ve got a broken rib and a collapsed lung. You landed badly, so your wrist and your forearm are broken, too.”

Ah, that explains it. She remembers bits and pieces of the events leading up to the injury. The race, Valarie in the lead, the final mile. The finish line decorated with a violently red banner and white chalk on the pavement.

And then the pain, and the falling, and …

“Someone had a gun,” Olive says, brushing Valarie’s hair away from her eyes. “They …” Olive swallows hard, her throat bobbing. Tears gather at her lash line. “I’m sorry.”

Don’t be sorry, Valarie wants to say, but can’t. Instead, she furrows her brows, pinching her mouth in a way she hopes conveys her annoyance at Olive’s apology. Lovingly, of course.

Olive sniffs and shakes her head. “Anyway, someone tackled him. But you …” Olive huffs a sigh. “You were in surgery for a few hours. They put a chest tube in.” Valarie glances down to see a plastic tube snaking out from under the blanket next to the plaster of her arm cast. She looks away. If she thinks too hard about it, she’ll get dizzy again.

“You’ve been out for a little over a day.” Olive clears her throat. “Your aunt and uncle were here, but visiting hours are over now.” Olive takes Valarie’s hand. Gently, like Valarie is something fragile. It makes Valarie want to cry, but she knows that can’t be good for her lungs. Besides, she doesn’t have the energy.

“They said healing can take up to eight weeks.” Olive sniffs and blinks a few times. “So you won’t be able to train until then. I’m sorry.” Olive says it like she memorized it, like she memorized everything the nurses told her. She probably did.

Fuck. She wouldn’t train for the marathon in November she’d been wanting to do with her running group. She wouldn’t run at all for months.

Her eyelids grow heavy. She blinks twice. Olive strokes the back of Valarie’s hand with her thumb. “Rest. Feel better, please.”

Valarie squeezes Olive’s hand as hard as she can – which isn’t particularly hard – and closes her eyes.

She wakes again to find Olive asleep on a cot beside her. “She refuses to go home to sleep. The nurses finally took pity on her and brought a cot in.”

Valarie turns at the sound of Aunt Aunt Dara’s voice. Careful this time, so she doesn’t move her torso. Valarie always wanted to look like her, growing up. She cried when her parents explained how genetics work, that she wasn’t related to Dara, but to Uncle Leo, and therefore it was unlikely that she would grow into Dara’s soft curves, or that her frizzy light brown curls would become raven-black waves.

Aunt Dara puts her phone in her bag and smiles at her. “Hey there. How are you feeling?” Valarie pulls a face, and Aunt Dara hums in agreement.

Valarie nods. Then, “Am I allowed to talk?” God, her chest burns, and her throat is terribly dry, but she manages not to cough.

Aunt Dara purses her lips. “Hang on. Here.” she hands her her phone. “No concussion. Type for now.”

She does, clumsy with her good hand, then angles the phone toward Aunt Dara. What day is it?

“You’ve been here about thirty-six hours,” Aunt Dara says, putting a careful hand on her arm. “You’re recovering well, but you’ve been through intensive surgery.” She rubs her arm up and down, like she’s done since Valarie was small. Her reassurance. “Your only job now is to rest.”

Valarie types again. Thank you for coming. She remembers Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo in the crowd, cheering in the jerseys they made with VALARIE JAMES printed on the back. The family Valarie chose, who chose her.

They would have seen everything. The gun shot. Several minutes of Valarie gasping for air, writhing in pain and coughing blood.

“Oh, honey, of course I came. Leo is at work, but he’ll be here later.” Her lower lip trembles for a second, so quick Valarie almost doubts it happened at all. She smiles, but her eyes are wet, and it makes Valarie want to cry, too. “I’m just so glad you’re okay, my habibti.”

When Valarie wakes again, she is on fire. Her skin is too tight and so, so inflamed. She’s shaking with cold underneath and it doesn’t make sense, how she could be burning like this and still so cold, but she is. She turns to see where she is, but the pain has her seeing white, and there’s a hand on her shoulder.

There’s a flurry of voices and faces and everything is too bright, and then there’s Olive, and she wants to ask Olive where Mom has gone, but she can’t squeeze the words out of her broken chest.

Eyes closed. Eyes open. An IV drips above her. There’s something cool and soft on her forehead. A hand in hers, warm. Olive’s eyes meet her before the fever pulls Valarie under again.

Eyes closed. Eyes open She is in her childhood bedroom, burning up with sickness, tucked under the blankets and shivering while her mom sits beside her, a hand on her shoulder, but her face is all wrong, flushed red and eyes bulging.

            Eyes closed. Eyes open. They ask her questions she can’t make out.

Do you know –– are?

                                    New York. Home.

            No. Raleigh, –– Carolina. You live –– Olive Awasthi-Patrick. –– work?

                                    Student?

            — freelancer.

                                    Did I graduate?

            Four years ––.

            Eyes closed. Eyes open. Olive and Mom sit at her bedside, Mom’s face contorted in rage, Olive’s with worry, and both are somehow horrible. She reaches for Olive but her hand is so, impossibly heavy.

Eyes closed. Eyes open. Valarie immediately screws them shut. The lights are too bright and the beeping is too loud and she can’t—

“Hey, baby. Can you hear me?”

That voice. Valarie opens her eyes. Olive clutches her right hand, thumb rubbing her uninjured wrist. “Valarie, do you know where you are?”

“Hospital,” Valarie murmurs. It aches, but Olive needs this reassurance. Needs Valarie here with her.

“Holy shit,” Olive says, then bursts into tears.

“Olive, hey.” Her voice is a whisper, syllables a knife in her chest. She clears her throat, but that makes it worse. “It’s okay,” she wheezes.

Olive scrubs her eyes. “You got an infection,” she says, emotion tightening her words. “You’ve been in and out for three days.”

Oh. That explains why her skin aches, why she's so warm even in her short-sleeved hospital gown. That explains the … dreams? Hallucinations? she isn’t sure, but she remembers them too well.

Olive takes a deep breath. “You’re on antibiotics … Fuck.”

“M’okay,” Valarie mutters, wincing as she does so.

“You shouldn’t be talking.”

“And you shouldn’t be crying,” Valarie rasps.

Olive laughs. It’s short and it seems to startle her, eyes widening at the sound. But it’s the best thing Valarie could have hoped for in this moment.

“You were …” Olive’s throat bobs. “You were asking for your mom.”

Oh. That must have terrified Olive, Valarie shouting for the woman she hasn’t spoken to in years. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t be … Just rest, please? I’ll be right here. Just get better.”

Eyes closed.

*

Dr. Xi is a kind, patient woman with light brown skin a few shades off from Olive’s and a wrist tattoo in the shape of a snail shell. She makes Olive laugh two whole times, which is a miracle considering where they are.

And Valarie is pissed at this kind doctor who makes her girlfriend laugh because she will not let her walk to the car.

She's been lying in bed for two weeks now, her recovery time delayed by infection, and she's desperate to walk more than the few steps to the bathroom or to get to the hospital-grade wheelchair. Her fever broke days ago, but she's achy all over, and she's not sure he’d make it very far. But she wants to try, damnit.

“Almost there,” Olive says. The attending nurse pushes her from behind and Olive takes Valarie’s hand in hers. Valarie’s right hand. The left is still encased in hard plaster, all the way down to her elbow, signed with the names of all her her friends who’ve cycled through over the past fourteen days. It’s sore, but steady around the cloth bag in her lap, the things Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo brought for her hospital stay early on. Her anti-anxiety pills and a change of clothes and a book.

Far worse than her wrist and her forearm is the crook of her elbow, where a steady flow of saline-blood-zofran-doxycycline has kept her alive for the last two weeks. The bandage is pink, the lump of it barely visible under Valarie’s sweater, covering the angry, puckered scar that used to be a vein. This is the first time in a week she’s worn her own clothes, and she lets go of Olive’s hand briefly to tug her sweater over her wrists. She isn’t embarrassed of the scars she bares, or she tries not to be, but it is a relief to cover them, to not constantly face the reminder of the things she did to survive her childhood home.

The outside air is cool and welcome. She inhales slowly, careful not to overexert her fragile lungs. Exhales through her mouth, like the physical therapist advised.

Olive pulls the car around, and Valarie is buckling her seat belt and then they’re home. Valarie lifts her head from the window, blinking her eyes open. “Did I fall asleep?” She was so sick of sleeping.

“Yeah. We’re here.”

Valarie’s head falls back against the glass. So sick of sleeping, but so fucking tired. She twists to remove her seatbelt and immediately regrets it. There’s the stabbing where her broken ribs hadn’t quite healed, white-hot and sharp. She grits her teeth to stop herself from crying out.

Inside, she lets Olive take her to the bedroom. “I’m going to shower,” Valarie says, tugging her sweater over her head with her free hand, moving deliberately to avoid antagonizing her ribs. Olive has to help her anyway.

Olive grabs her phone. Types. Probably a message to Valarie’s aunt and uncle, who worry too much and who’ve become close with Olive over the last three years. “Give me one second and I’ll come with you.”

“I’m fine.” she smiles at Olive, but she knows said smile must be tired. Fragile. “I can give you a shout if I need you.”

“You’re not supposed to overexert yourself. Or yell.”

“I can take my phone. Call you.”

Olive hesitates, fidgeting with her sweatshirt string. “Literally call me for anything, okay? I’ll be right out here.”

Valarie wants to fight her, say that Olive doesn’t have to wait for her, but she doesn’t have the energy. Instead, she nods and heads to the bathroom. She runs the water and strips the rest of her clothes off in a pile on the floor. The mirror is unkind, showing her the dark circles bruised under her eyes, along with the yellow-green remainder of actual bruises peeking out from under her cast and drifting down the left side of her chest. Her face is snowy-white, the whites of her eyes pink with exhaustion. Her hair is a matted mess, her mouth cracked and dry. She licks her lips and turns away.

The soap is fine, mostly. She's more tired lathering her skin than she's ever been at the end of a race, but she can do that. It’s the shampoo that reveals her mistake.

She's not supposed to reach for anything above her shoulders. Her hair is decidedly over her shoulders.

She tries, but the pain is sharp and immediate, forcing her to double over, left arm extended to avoid getting her cast wet. She breathes through it, out through her mouth, and slowly lifts her right arm again, but she can’t even manage to get it halfway up without seeing stars. She lowers herself slowly to the floor of the tub as a wave of dizziness and nausea sends the room spinning. She's not supposed to yell, but she thinks Olive would prefer it to what would happen if Valarie went for her phone and passed out on the cold bathroom floor.

“Olive?” She hates that she can’t do this, hates her body for failing her. But then Olive is there. She pulls the curtain back, and Valarie could cry with relief. Instead, she forces another small smile. “I may need some help.”

“Okay.” Olive strips off her shirt and her pants and Valarie wishes she could watch, but her eyes flutter shut against the harsh bathroom light, and she feels rather than sees Olive get into the tub behind her. “Soap first?”

“Did soap. Just need hair.” The grease is hard and thick, and she thinks even if she had managed to use the shampoo properly, she wouldn’t have been able to work out all the tangles on her own. She phases in and out as Olive helps her with shampoo, then conditioner, and when she is done and mostly clothed – getting pants on is energy she decidedly doesn’t have, so boxers will have to do for now – she collapses onto the mattress and everything goes dark.

Valarie wakes to pain, bright and sharp across her chest. She bites her lower lip to keep from screaming and shifts into a better position. She must have moved in her sleep.

Broken ribs suck.

When the pain fades enough, Valarie looks around the room from where she's propped up on three pillows. It is dark, and Olive sleeps beside her. Olive probably hasn’t gotten a full night's sleep in two weeks.

Valarie’s stomach growls, and she realizes she hasn’t eaten a full meal in days. Snacks and the like, but nothing more. She pushes herself up with her right hand and, after making sure she isn’t too dizzy, slips out of bed.

She's nearly at the kitchen when she realizes she's panting, her chest tight. She stumbles in the doorway and lurches forward, catching herself on the counter with both hands, sending shooting pains all up and down her left arm. She gasps from the contact, but the rush doesn’t fill her lungs. She sinks to the floor, mouth working in an attempt to get enough air, her bare legs cold on the linoleum.

When Olive finds her there – twenty minutes later, according to the digital clock above the stove – Valarie is recovered enough to manage an airy laugh. “Got hungry.” She’s more breathless than she ever was after a marathon.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Felt fine. Nice view down here, is all.”

Olive sits beside her, putting an arm on Valarie’s knee. “Hey, I know you hate asking for help, but you’re going to have to suck it up because I swear to god I will break up with you if you do this again.”

Valarie’s mouth ticks up in her first genuine smile in days. “You wouldn’t. You would never leave me alone like this.”

“True. But you’ll be better, and then I’ll leave. You’ll hate it. There will be so much paperwork over the house.”

God, she loves this woman so much. “Ugh. Fine. Please, darling of mine, could I have a sandwich at four o’clock in the morning?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Olive says, placing a gentle kiss on Valarie’s cheek and helping her to her feet.

*

Valarie has plenty of scars. The ones on her wrists. A few from her years in of training, mostly on her hands and knees from the unforgiving terrains she’s run. But the ones on her chest from the surgery are thickest, two diagonal lines that make it look like the letter V. “For Valarie,” she jokes to Olive. The bruises are lighter now, emphasizing the lines on Valarie’s skin.

“It goes well with your tattoo,” Olive teases, tracing the outline of the swan on her ribs. Gentle, but not as gentle as she's been the past few days. It’s like she's finally admitted to herself that Valarie is solid, that Valarie is here, that Valarie is breathing. That one too-hard touch won’t break them. Valarie strongly prefers it.

They are on the couch today, Valarie’s third day home. Valarie threatened to start throwing things if she had to spend one more day in the bedroom, so Olive rolled her eyes and helped her up. She lays back against Olive’s shoulder.

“I will need to get an O tattoo. For Olive.”

Olive grimaces at the thought. “I would rather you not.”

“We could get them matching. I have some free space on my leg. Could go in a little heart.”

Valarie is exhausted, fatigue weighing on her muscles, but it’s nice to banter with Olive, nice to talk about something other than her injury and recovery. If she doesn’t move too much – or even a little, twisting her torso the wrong way – she can pretend everything is normal. Everything is fine.

But it can’t last. Olive clears her throat. “So, I wanted to ask you something.” Valarie nods, and Olive continues, “Dara told me she’s talking to a lawyer. The man who … He’s being tried. She wants to know how involved we want to be.”

Valarie frowns. “You want to go to court over this?”

“Not really, no. But if you wanted to –”

“I don’t.” She wanted this behind them as quickly as possible.

“Okay. I’ll tell your aunt.” Olive runs a hand through Valarie’s curls. It does nothing to help with the fatigue.

“Tell Aunt Dara thank you for offering to help.”

“I will. They’re coming over tomorrow night. That’s as long as I could hold them off before they were going to break down the door.”

Valarie chuckles. Light. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t gut her like the pain of the last few weeks. “They worry. It’s nice of them.” She loves how much they love Olive. How much they care. Her parents certainly don’t.

Olive kisses Valarie’s temple. “I love you, you know.”

“You could say it more often.” Olive laughs and Valarie grins. “I love you, too, sweetheart.”

Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo are easy. When Valarie tires after fifteen minutes at the table, she doesn’t feel terrible going back to bed. The others are less so, friends and her running group and a distant cousin on Uncle Leo’s side that Valarie swears she’s never met before. They mean well, all of them, but Valarie hates that she can’t be a good host, hates that all she can do is laze on the couch and try to keep her eyes open, hates that Olive has to do everything.

“Could you tell them maybe … Maybe I can see them next week? I think I might … Maybe a little more time.”

Olive nods from where she sits on the bed across from Valarie. Valarie sits up, too, but only because she's laying on top of every single pillow they have, which is quite a few, thanks to Olive after they moved in together. “Of course. I thought … Sorry.” Olive’s mouth snaps shut. She fidgets with the quilt.

“What is it?”

Olive shrugs. “I just thought it might get lonely. But I’m sorry. I’ll tell them to stop coming.”

Oh. Olive arranged all of this, it occurs to Valarie. Of course she did. She knows Valarie is an extrovert, knows how fucking boring it must be to sleep all the time.

“It was a nice thought,” Valarie says, pulling Olive to her. “I am just very tired.”

“Okay.” Olive settles against the pillows with Valarie, resting her head on Valarie’s shoulder. They sit like that for a while, until Valarie falls asleep again.

*

She's been home for a week and a half when it occurs to her that Olive hasn’t left once. Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo bring them food, and sometimes, Ghada, their pit bull who they’re all pretty sure has a crush on Olive. But Olive has been here the whole time. Which meant she hasn’t gone to class in the almost four weeks since Valarie got injured.

“I’ll go when you’re well,” Olive says. They’re outside on an unseasonably warm day, laying on the deck in the backyard because Valarie begged to take a walk, and this was Olive’s compromise. They sent a selfie to Farah, Valarie’s best friend from high school, captioned like she’s traveling. Farah sent her back an angry emoji and some choice words about how if Valarie died doing something stupid, Farah would bring her back just so she could kill her again.

“I don’t want you to compromise your Ph.D. for me.”

“I’m not compromising anything. I’m still working from our office.”

“Will you go to office hours at least?”

Olive rolls her eyes, and Valarie wants to yell, but she won’t. Both because it’s not fair to Olive and because it would really fucking hurt. And then Olive says, “Would leave the house for work? If it were me?”

Valarie looks away. Because no, of course she wouldn’t, not in the least because her day job as a freelance copywriter isn’t as time-sensitive as Olive’s Ph.D. research. But if she agrees with Olive, then Olive will never leave. She would stay trapped here with Valarie.

Olive reaches out, but Valarie flinches back. “I can without you for a few hours.”

“I know you can.”

“Oh, do you? Because lately I can’t take a fucking shit without you hovering in the next room.”

Olive inhales sharply, and Valarie immediately wants to take it back. Olive has done every fucking thing for her – showers, meals, bandages – and Valarie only gives cruelty back. She pinches the bridge of her nose. Avoids Olive’s eyes because she just knows she’ll see all the hurt in those beautiful, brown irises. “I’m sorry. I … Fuck, it’s not you. I …”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. You’ve been so good to me.”

“Because I want to be, baby. I’m not doing this because I think you can’t handle it. I’m doing this because I love you, and you almost fucking died.” Her voice breaks, and Valarie looks her in the eye. They’re wet, Olive’s eyes. “We can … We can talk about class. Maybe slow, at first. If you want some time apart.”

“It’s not that. It’s … I hate how useless I am right now.”

“You’re not useless, baby.” Olive reaches out again, and this time, Valarie takes her hand. “You’re not useless. You’re here.” Valarie turns away again, but Olive stops her with a gentle touch to Valarie’s chin. “Hey, you have to know this. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. Valarie James, you are everything to me.”

They talk to Uncle Leo and Aunt Dara and even phone Olive’s mom in Colorado, and when all of them tell her it’s not a bad idea, Olive goes to class. She hates it, and she calls Valarie twice before she even steps on campus, but she goes. Uncle Leo comes over in the interim, because as much as she hates it, Valarie can’t be by herself right now. They sit on the couch together, watching an old movie Uncle Leo loves. They cut to commercial break and Uncle Leo says, “You need anything?”

She's a little hungry, and she's overdue for her pain meds, leaving her whole torso an angry, aching bruise. “I’m fine,” she says.

Uncle Leo looks her up and down, like he can see right through her. He always could. Before she told him she liked girls, Uncle Leo made them all watch But I’m A Cheerleader, sneaking her not-at-all subtle glances to see how she’d react. The one time she had a self-harm relapse as an adult, she only cried after Uncle Leo said, You know you’re not weak for this, like he could pluck the thought from her head.

“Have we ever talked about my father, Valarie?” Valarie shakes her head. She knows she has a grandfather, of course, but he died when Valarie was two and neither her father nor Uncle Leo brought him up very much. “He was … cold,” Uncle Leo says. “Hated any sign of weakness, especially for me, being the older one. Made me feel like I couldn’t ask for help. It wasn’t until I held you for the first time that I realized softness could be good. Could be better. That asking for help isn’t a weakness, and it’s good to let the people who love you help you sometimes.”

This again. “You’ve been talking to Olive.”

Uncle Leo cracks a smile. “No. I’ve just known you for a while now, if you can believe it.”

Valarie sighs. Rubs her eyes. She feels so fucking lazy, but she has no real desire to move her broken body. And Uncle Leo offered. Good, kind Uncle Leo who will not judge her for admitting weakness. Uncle Leo, who at least understands Valarie’s reluctance to accept help. “The pain meds, in the en suite. And … maybe some food?”

“You got it, kid.” Uncle Leo pats Valarie’s leg and gets up to grab the meds, and it doesn’t feel nearly as terrible as Valarie thought it would, to let him help. Valarie falls asleep after half a bowl of pasta and when she wakes again, Olive is there, still in the sweater she put on this morning, picking up the bowl.

Valarie clears her throat. Olive jumps. “Shit, Valarie, I thought you were out.”

“I was.” She rubs her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just after four. Afternoon.”

She sits a little straighter, careful not to bend her torso. It stings all the same. Olive takes the bowl into the kitchen, then comes back. “How was class?” Valarie asks, seated now against the arm of the couch.

“Weird, with you here,” Olive says. “But good, I think.”

“Good. And I’m sorry I snapped at you the other day. I want you to go, but I am not mad at you. Just … this.”

Olive sits by Valarie’s feet, leaning against her legs. “I know. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“I shouldn’t take it out on you, though. I just wish I could make time move faster.” She says it with a half-smile, but the sentiment hurts almost as badly as her ribs.

Olive kisses her knee above the blanket. “I wish I could do that for you, too.”

*

A follow up X-ray clears Valarie to exercise after three weeks at home, five after the injury. “Does that mean sex?”

Olive turns red in the seat next to her, makes a horrible choking sound. Dr. Xi grins. “Take it slow,” she says, “but I see no reason why not.”

In the car, Olive buries her head in her hands. “Jesus Christ; you’re a fucking menace. My girlfriend is a menace to society.”

Valarie grins. “You will ride me slow. Doctor’s orders.”

“I can’t with you,” Olive says, pulling out of the parking lot. But she does, and it leaves Valarie a little breathless, but she's so, so fucking happy to have this one thing that she doesn’t even mind when Olive makes her rest after.

She goes to the gym the day after that. Or, her and Olive’s office that also has a bike in it. Olive insists she wants to work at her desk, which is probably true on some level – Olive hasn’t done nearly as much studying as she usually does – but Valarie also knows she wants to keep an eye out. And that’s okay. She's trying not to think about it too much.

She starts on the bike. It’s sitting. She doesn’t have to put the resistance up too high – just a little – and doesn’t have to use her wrist or her arm. She's okay for the first five minutes or so, and then her chest throbs in time with her heartbeat, and by minute seven she's sweating buckets. She's trying and failing to maintain her speed, when Olive comes up behind her. “Valarie, slow down.”

“I’m fine,” she huffs, keeping an eye on the numbers. She's so fucking slow, but she can manage this. At least this.

“You’re wheezing. Stop.”

“I can do this.”

“Valarie, you’re hurting yourself.”

The room spins, and Valarie sways, and Olive’s hands are on either side of her. She stumbles off the bike and sinks to the floor, coughing hard, the movement ripping through her like a fucking grenade.

Olive pushes Valarie lightly so that Valarie is sitting against her, Olive’s arms around Valarie’s shoulders, facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror on the back of the door. “Fuck,” Valarie wheezes, then coughs again. She's nauseated, but she wills it away. The only thing that would hurt worse than coughing right now is throwing up.

“You’re okay. Maybe we start a little slower than that.” Olive rubs her arm. “Do you need some water?”

“I don’t want … to start slower.” She's panting, and still dizzy, but she has to make Olive understand this. “It’s been … slow enough.”

“I know, but Valarie, you were hurt. Badly. Your body –”

“Fuck my fucking body.” She twists to look at Olive and her lungs cinch painfully, cutting her off. She groans in frustration, hitting her knee with her working fist. She looks at Olive in the mirror instead.

“Your body is doing amazing,” Olive says softly. “Do you know how much it’s had to do over the past few weeks? You’re healing. You’re so strong, baby.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.” her vision blurs, and not from the vertigo. She sniffs and scrubs at her eyes.

“It sucks, but bodies need time to heal. If you push it too hard, it won’t get better at all.” A stray tear escapes Valarie’s eye, and Olive wipes it away with her thumb. “I’m proud of you. Really. This is … a lot.”

“Ha. Yes it is.”

“I think we’ve put your poor lungs through enough today,” Olive says with a soft smile. Valarie groans, but Olive adds, “Tomorrow, we can try again? Slow this time.”

Valarie breathes slowly. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Practiced. “Okay,” she says. “Tomorrow.”

*

Home is boring, when Olive goes to class. Valarie sleeps less, but she's also able to do more, so she takes (very short) walks, sometimes with Aunt Dara and Ghada to the dog park. She does her breathing exercises, even though they are also boring. She calls Farah for a while, talks shit about people from high school. Binges Pose on the TV. Takes her meds. Feels awful for being so lazy. Scolds herself for the thought.

At four weeks out of the hospital, Aunt Dara drives her to get her cast off while Olive is in class. She sends a final picture to her friends, all the signatures stark against the plaster. Her skin is startlingly pale underneath, and her wrist is stiff, but it’s a relief. “Could I go back to training now?” If she starts now, she won’t come in first, but she can still run the next marathon.

Dr. Xi shakes her head. “Sorry, Ms. James. Two more weeks for exertion on that level.” Valarie tries not to look disappointed at that, but Aunt Dara puts an arm around her, comforting her.

In the car, Aunt Dara says, “We could probably go to the track. Jog a little bit.”

That’s … That’s an idea. Jogging on its own is low-impact, and Aunt Dara will be there if anything happens. “You want to go?”

“Why not? I haven’t been in a while.” Aunt Dara never ran marathons, but she did run through the neighborhood with Ghada almost every morning. The track on campus, not far from the building Valarie taught her classes in, became a favorite for both Valarie and Aunt Dara when Valarie and Olive started dating.

Valarie bites her lower lip in thought. Before she can say either way – she's torn between her strong desire to say yes and her equally strong desire not to inconvenience the aunt who’s been more to her than she deserves – Aunt Dara starts the car. “C’mon,” she says. “We can surprise Olive.”

Olive is not impressed. She takes them in at the door of her advisor’s office, where Olive has her office hours. She leans against the frame. “What are you doing here?”

“Doctor says light exercise is okay. Me and Aunt Dara are going to do some laps.”

Olive crosses her arms and looks to her Aunt Dara, who sighs. “Olive, honey, I know you’re worried, but it will be good for her. And I’m here in case anything happens.”

Olive purses her lips in a way that reminds Valarie of Olive’s mom, who was absolutely lovely but could never hide a single thought before it played out on her face. “Okay. Fine. Just … be careful, please.”

“You know me,” Valarie says, standing. “Always careful.” She kisses the pout off Olive’s lips.

And it is good for her, jogging on the track with Aunt Dara. Her aunt is no professional, but she's pretty fast. They keep to one side of the track so the practicing soccer team can use the opposite goal. They take a break on the bleachers after thirty minutes or so, Valarie’s chest is sore, but it doesn’t burn like it did.

“C’mon, hon,” Aunt Dara says when they’re both in sneakers. “Let’s get us some hot chocolate.”

In the café, Valarie gets their drinks and the two of them sit at a table while CNN plays in the background. When Olive’s office hours end at three, she joins them, sitting at their table with spiced chai. “How was it?” Olive asks, pulling her chair in.

“So great,” Valarie says, unable to keep her stupid, too-wide smile off her face. “How were your students?”

“Only three of them came by today. It was pretty quiet.” And then she asks, “Are you still okay with me going to Asheville this week?”

“Yes, yes,” Valarie says. They’ve had this plan for months, for Olive to spend the trip with her best friends from college. It’s hard to be away from her, but less so when Valarie has running again. Maybe she’ll come back to the track this week.

The screen changes to show a courthouse, a petite blonde woman standing outside. “I’m in Raleigh, outside of the courthouse in which the man dubbed the Marathon Marksman is being tried for attempted murder.”

Olive freezes. “Should I ask them to change the channel?” Aunt Dara asks. Valarie is about to say yes when, on the TV, the so-called Marathon Marksman appears, his icy blue eyes staring straight ahead, and it occurs to Valarie that she has never seen his face before. He’s pale, his expression pinched. Wispy blonde hair falls nearly to his shoulders. He wears a black tux with a red tie.

Suddenly, Valarie is both here and not, at the table with two of the people she loves most in the world and at the marathon outside a month ago, face-down on the ground and unable to get a full

            breath

            in. She's eighteen and screaming, her mother pulling her hair in punishment for applying to colleges outside of New York, away from her

            iron

                        grip. She's a child,

            age twelve,

            her father shaking her because

                        why

                                    is Valarie crying

                        as if she didn’t cut into her own

                                    skin,

                                    some days the

                                                only

                                                            relief.

Someone says her name, and she can’t tell if it is the Olive from a month ago or the Olive sitting beside her now. But then Olive says, “Valarie, come back to me,” and Valarie snaps back to the present. She's shaking and choking on air, and Olive is kneeling in front of her. “Valarie, talk to me.”

“I—” Her cheeks are wet and she's not sure when she started crying. Did it to herself, she can’t help thinking. “I’m sorry …”

Olive shakes her head and rises to Valarie’s level, wrapping her arms around Valarie. The TV is off now. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

Valarie buries her face in Olive’s neck to hide at least some of her breakdown and Olive holds her tighter, one thigh resting on Valarie’s chair. Aunt Dara rubs her back.

“I’m sorry that man hurt you,” Olive murmurs into Valarie’s hair.

When Valarie glances up again, Olive is crying, too, but quietly. Aunt Dara has a box of tissues. She offers it to Valarie, who takes it. She blows her nose, the pressure uncomfortable against her ribs, but not too painful. “I’m sorry,” she says again.

Olive makes a distressed noise somewhere in the back of her throat. “Shit, Valarie, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Seconded,” Aunt Dara says, raising a hand.

Valarie takes a second tissue. Wipes her eyes. “Okay. I am okay.”

Olive presses a kiss into her hair. Wipes both her cheeks and Valarie’s. “We can call your therapist this week?”

Valarie nods, and Olive kisses her temple. “You’re okay,” Olive whispers. “You’re okay. You’re here. Just breathe.”

*

Olive is hesitant to leave for Asheville, especially after Valarie broke down. It takes the combined effort of Valarie, Uncle Leo, Aunt Dara, and Valarie’s friend Farah, the last of whom has come up to visit Valarie for the week, to get her out of the house and before the group leaves without her.

“She loves you so much,” Farah says. Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo came over for dinner, all of them stuffed from the mujaddara Uncle Leo has perfected after many years of cooking with Aunt Dara’s Palestinian parents.

“It’s true,” Aunt Dara says with a grin. “For a minute there I thought we were going to have to tie her up to get her in that van.” Ghada rests her blocky head in Uncle Leo’s lap. Uncle Leo strokes her ears absent-mindedly.

“I like that she worries about you,” Farah says, perched on the arm of the couch next to Valarie. “Someone has to. It certainly won’t be you.”

Uncle Leo chuckles, earning her glares from both Valarie (playful) and Ghada (less so). “Amen to that,” Aunt Dara says with a smirk.

“I’m sorry, did we all get together to bully me?” Valarie teases. “Olive will be so upset she missed this part.”

“Oh, Valarie, come here.” Aunt Dara pulls her into a hug, squeezing her tighter than she's dared since her injury.

“She has to be nice to me,” Valarie deadpans. “I’m hurt.”

“Olive looks at you like you personally hung the moon,” Uncle Leo says from where Ghada is now half-asleep on his leg.

“It’s true,” Farah adds. “I don’t know her nearly so well and I can see that’s true.”

“Alright, enough for now,” Aunt Dara says, rubbing Valarie’s arm. “You’ve still got ice cream in the fridge?”

Valarie laughs. “Yes. You got all my favorite kinds. I haven’t even eaten half of them.”

“I’ll get some bowls,” Aunt Dara says, patting Valarie once on the shoulder. Her left, now that the cast is off.

“I’ll help,” Uncle Leo says, much to Ghada’s annoyance. She stands in a huff and trots over to her dog bed next to the TV.

The two of them depart for the kitchen. Farah pokes Valarie’s arm, and she slides over for her to sit beside her. “They’re very sweet,” Farah says. “You know I was sad when you left, but this is good for you. You have a family here.” Not her parents. Parents don’t discard children the way they discarded her.

But Aunt Dara and Uncle Leo? She owes them everything. “They’re the best,” Valarie agrees. If this had happened in New York, Farah would have done everything to help her, and surely friends would have given her rides when she needed them, but it wouldn’t have been this.

Besides, she wouldn’t trade a single second of Olive for anyone else. If these weeks were the price she paid to be with the woman she loved, she would pay it a thousand times over.

Farah and Olive overlap for a few days after Olive gets back, and Valarie enjoys their company together. It’s a lot of teasing Valarie and swapping embarrassing stories, but Valarie couldn’t mind if she tried. Farah leaves the morning of Valarie’s therapy session, a class day Valarie insists Olive attend. Uncle Leo is kind enough to drive Valarie to therapy, so Olive relents.

Olive picks her up on her way home from campus. She says nothing of Valarie’s red eyes and splotchy cheeks until they get in the car. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Valarie shrugs. “My therapist thinks maybe I haven’t let myself … Think about what happened. Like, process it, maybe?”

“I think that’s fair,” Olive says. One hand on the steering wheel, the other on Valarie’s. Five weeks from the hospital, seven from the injury, and her wrist is still stiff and sore if she uses it too much. She will bring it up to Dr. Xi next week.

“I have a hard time. Being lazy.”

“That’s not— ”

“I know. But that is where my brain goes, I think.” Because that’s what her parents always told her. If you just had a positive attitude, Valarie. If you worked harder, Valarie. If you were different, Valarie.

Quiet, for a moment. Soft music plays from the car speakers. Olive changes lanes. Gets off at the exit. “Is it helpful to tell you that’s fucking bullshit?”

That startles a laugh out of Valarie. For the first time since she fell, it doesn’t hurt. It’s a little tight in her chest, but there’s no pain. “Yes, I think so.”

“Cool, then that’s fucking bullshit.”

“Yes. Probably.”

“Definitely.” she squeezes Valarie’s hand. “I think you could stand to be a little lazier.”

“Hmm.”

“Can I spoil you for a bit when we get home? In the bedroom, maybe?”

Valarie grins. “Yes, sweetheart, you can spoil me in bed all you’d like.”

Olive rolls her eyes. “I meant maybe a massage or something,” she deadpans. But then she's laughing, and it is the most beautiful sound Valarie has ever heard.

*

The day Valarie is cleared to train again, eight weeks to the day after her injury, she and Olive drive straight to the track from their early doctor’s appointment. Olive pulls into a spot. Turns to Valarie. “You’ll be careful, though, right?”

“I will be the most careful. You’ve never met anyone more careful.”

“Fuck off,” Olive says with a smirk. She turns off the car. “I’m serious.”

“Yes, I will be careful. I’m super deconditioned, anyway. I’ll probably keel over like fifteen minutes in.”

Olive kisses her, soft and sweet and slow. Presses her forehead to Valarie’s. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I did nothing. I sat on couch and watched TV.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

Valarie shrugs, but Olive is right. Valarie is here, not quite on the other side, but close. Her wrist troubles her, and Dr. Xi isn’t sure it will ever heal entirely from the break, but she made it through the thick of it. She can breathe in all the ways that matter.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” she says, because it’s true. Olive did everything. Olive is everything.

“You know I wanted to be there, right? I know it was shitty, but I’d rather be with you while you’re in pain than with anyone else. Every day with you is my best day.”

“Worst-best days, then.”

Olive laughs. “Yeah, but now we get to have better-best days.”

They exit the car together, linking hands as they cross the lot. Valarie pauses at the edge of the field. Takes a breath, painless. She is here, after so much time of this moment feeling impossibly far away. Olive puts a hand on her lower back. “Are you ready for this?”

Valarie nods. “More than ready,” she says, and steps onto the track.