It's difficult to describe what heartbreak feels like. It's not like in the movies, where after a good cry and some ice cream things seem to get better. In fact, it's impossible to know when things even start to get better because it's just too unpredictable.

One day, you're bawling your eyes out, cocooned up in bed like a sad little burrito, then the next you're cleaning the house from top to bottom in a frenzied attempt to keep busy. The next day, you go to work and start to think that things are getting better and then, without warning, you revert back to being a mess, cutting up a vase full of carnations sat on your bedroom windowsill.

Heartbreak is hourly changes of emotion: hurt, anger, confusion, numbness, determination, and heart-wrenching sadness. It's pretending to feel none of these things because there's this constant need to prove to everyone that you're actually okay, even when you know you're not. Honestly, if someone asked me to sum up heartbreak in just one word, that word would be this: exhausting.

It's been less than a week since I broke up with Dylan but it feels like a lifetime has passed. Maybe it would be easier if he actually got the message and stopped thinking he could fix things. Countless texts and calls from him a day (each shortly followed by a voicemail after I've left my phone to ring off) is just making everything harder.

He's even been to the house a few times to see me – apparently he wants to talk, whatever the hell that means – and each time he's had Owen tell him to go and eat a particular part of the male anatomy, before having the door slammed in his face.

Owen can be a pain in the ass at times, but you've got to love the kid.

As for Megan, I haven't heard a peep from her, at all. She tried calling a few times the day I ditched her at the pub, but either she spoke to Dylan or figured it out on her own. She hasn't tried calling again because, apparently, she's a thief and a coward.

My phone begins to sing out in my back pocket as Dylan tries to call again. I don't have time for him – or a pity party for myself – so I press ignore and keep walking. There's somewhere I have to be.

My footsteps tap against the cracked pavement as I make my way towards the Coleman's house, kicking the odd stone out of my way as I go. Bailey has been there for a few hours by this point, finishing off the Krueger marathon with Alex after school and, as promised, she messaged to let me know that she'd be finishing it late. It's turning to dusk now as I make the journey to pick her up, having told Stella that she's busy at an after school sports club.

I'm not entirely sure when to break it to Bailey that she's going to have to brush up on her netball knowledge; she's not really the sporty type.

When I reach the house, I knock on the door and wait. Then, I wait a little more. When the door doesn't open, I knock again, unsure if anyone heard the first time. Still, it doesn't budge.

Right as panic is starting to claw its icy grip, the front door swings open to reveal Finn. He looks stressed and, if I had to guess, I'd say it has something to do with the yelling I can hear travelling through from the living room.

As I'm sure you can imagine, the sound doesn't ease my panic all that much.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Living room," he replies, opening the door wider as I invite myself in, pushing past him.

"Jade, wait... I should warn you–"

The door to the living room is slightly ajar and, when I push it open fully, I freeze at the sight of Andrew. He sits on one of the sofas, inky bruises scattered over his bare torso as his t-shirt sits discarded next to him. The fabric appears torn, as if sliced with scissors for easy removal – and it's no wonder why.

Andrew's right arm sits at an unnatural angle, dangling limp at his side. There's a giant lump at the base of his shoulder, one that tells me something is very wrong. As for his left arm, he uses that to fend off Lucas who moves to examine the damage, a pair of large kitchen scissors still in his hand.

"Don't fucking touch it," Andrew snaps, his face more than a little pasty. The guy looks as pale as an eighteenth-century ghost. "You'll make it worse."

"Dude, I don't think he can," Alex says, eyeing his brother's shoulder from where he sits on the other sofa. Bailey sits next to him, looking completely unharmed, if not a little green in the face.

She has a thing about bones.

So do I, if I'm being completely truthful – but I have good reason.

Andrew's arm spasms and I wince as I watch his face contort with pain, knowing first-hand what a dislocated shoulder feels like.

Ouchy. Very ouchy.

"Jade's here!" Finn announces from behind me, a forced cheeriness in his voice.

Everyone turns to look at me but I continue to stare at Andrew's shoulder, a churning sickness beginning to bubble in my stomach.

"...What the hell happened?" I ask.

"This genius got himself hit by a car," Lucas answers before anyone else can, folding his arms when it becomes clear that Andrew's not letting him near his shoulder.

"Clipped," Andrew corrects, teeth gritted with pain. "I got clipped by a car. I jumped out of the way–"

"Yeah, yeah, you're the real life Superman. We get it," Finn says from behind me, sarcasm dripping with each word as he walks around me in the doorway and enters the room.

The only brother missing is Bradley.

I blink a few times, absorbing the information. Hit by a car, dislocated shoulder...

"...And he's not in A&E, why?" I ask the logical question.

"No hospitals," Andrew responds immediately, grimacing as he jolts his shoulder.

None of his brothers argue with his words, which makes it my turn to grimace.

I've heard those words before.

I push away the memories.

"We usually have a guy for this kind of thing," Alex explains. Lucas shoots him a look that tells him to stop talking.

Of course they have a guy...

"So, where is he?" I ask.

"Busy," Lucas answers, and none of the others elaborate.

Finn sighs. "Well, someone's got to–"

"No!" Andrew yells when Finn takes a step closer to him. "You're not coming anywhere near me, either. You can fuck right off, Finn."

Lucas runs a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated sigh. "You can't just stay like this forever, Drew."

"I'll give it a go," Alex speaks up and, if you ask me, he sounds a little too eager. Everyone ignores him.

"You're such a fucking idiot, Drew," Lucas grumbles.

"This wasn't my fault," Andrew replies defensively.

"Sure it wasn't," Lucas replies sarcastically. "I warned you."

"It wasn't!" Andrew argues. "You weren't there, dude. You don't know."

"Exactly," Lucas grits out. "I wasn't there. I wasn't supposed to be. Neither were you." He takes a step forward. "I mean, Jesus! How many times do I have to tell you? Don't sell shit on their turf–"

Lucas cuts off his angry rant and sends a quick glance in my direction. I look away when his eyes meet mine, turning my attention to Freddy Krueger's face paused on the TV screen.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he's talking about.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out why they don't want emergency services involved.

This is exactly why I didn't want Bailey hanging out here.

"Jade knows how to fix dislocated shoulders."

The words belong to Bailey, bringing with them a fresh wave of nausea to my stomach. All eyes turn to her, including mine.

"No, I don't," I disagree – because what the hell is she playing at?

"You've fixed one before," she insists, leaning forward on the sofa, her arms resting on her knees. "I watched you do it."

Stop talking, kid. You're remembering it wrong.

"'Fixed' isn't exactly the word I'd use, Bailey," I mutter, feeling uncomfortable because now all eyes appear to be on me.

"But you know how to help him," Bailey argues. There's not an ounce of doubt in her voice and, honestly, this newfound confidence she has in me would be heart-warming in literally any other situation. "Or, at least, you know more about it than anyone else here – clearly." She motions around the room with her hand, at all the brothers who appear to be a little out of their depths.

Do I...?

I guess, in a sense, I sort of do.

At the age of seven, when my sisters and I were finally picked up by social and rushed to hospital, we all underwent a series of medical treatments. It was around that time when I was told that there had been extensive damage done to my left shoulder, caused mostly by me in my botched attempt at resetting it.

I had done it wrong, apparently. I was seven years old and severely undereducated... of course I had done it wrong.

The doctors were surprised I'd had the strength to do anything with it, at all. They had all told me as much, as if that was any consolation for my body being broken for literally the rest of my life. They all shared that same tone; like it was a testimony to my strength... like it was something I should be proud of.

It's not; it's something I could never be proud of. Stupidity is not the same thing as strength; idiocy is never something to be proud of. I had messed it up – broken myself in a way that can never be mended – and for all my plans for a brighter future, that's one thing I'll never be able to fix.

And so, true to my nature, I had wanted to know how to do it right. Many a night spent deep-diving on the internet, usually at times when my shoulder hurt so much I couldn't sleep, has helped me learn what I should have done. The NHS website, medical journals, every article out there on dislocation... I've read them all.

Even so, there is a big stretch between internet research and actually putting that theory into practice. I'm no expert, and I am in no way experienced with fixing dislocated shoulders.

"I'd rather you tried," Andrew tells me, his voice quiet. "I'm pretty sure Luke would rather rip my arm off fully and Finn... well – Finn's just an idiot."

Finn snorts a laugh. "Sure. You get yourself run over but I'm the idiot."

Lucas just watches me, waiting to see what I'll do next. It would seem this has caught his attention – which is literally the last thing I want.

I force my eyes back to his brother.

"I'm really no expert," I warn Andrew, trying to figure out the best way to turn down this absolutely absurd request. There is no way I am touching his shoulder; these morons need to get him to a hospital and face the music. This is insane!

I bite my lip as I stare at his shoulder, seeing the worrisome level of swelling. The longer it's left, the worse it'll get, and the harder it'll be to reset it.

He can't stay like this...

"Whose shoulder did you fix?" Alex asks, curious.

It's a question I really don't want to answer, but I tell them anyway.

"Mine."

And it hadn't been easy: a belt, a table, and a lot of failed attempts.

Again, this revelation makes me the centre of much unwanted attention. I can see the questions in their eyes, all except for Andrew who perks up at the news. There's a feverish triumph in his expression, and the bead of sweat I see rolling down his forehead reveals the pain he's trying so hard to hide.

"Well, you seem to be in one piece," he comments, eyeing my shoulders. "If I was a betting man, I'd put my money on you. Bailey's right."

Bailey's a dumbass with her facts backwards.

"You're crazy," I tell him, shaking my head. "Get your ass to a hospital. That's my advice, and it's the only help I'm giving."

"I'm not going to no damn hospital," Andrew grits out through clenched teeth, the sweat dripping all the way down to his jaw before dropping to the floor.

I'm not sure why my next logical step is to turn on Lucas.

"You're seriously not going to drive your brother to A&E?" I demand, completely dumbfounded. I don't care how much trouble they might get in; it's his brother.

I don't care what Andrew says. If he were my brother, I would drag his ass to the nearest hospital and let him hate me for it. The only reason I can think of, as to why Lucas hasn't done the same, is because he's more worried about getting caught for selling drugs than he is for his brother's own wellbeing. And that just doesn't sit right with me.

Lucas, not intimidated by the sharpness behind my words, merely raises an eyebrow at me. Then, he folds his arms and scowls a glare much fiercer than anything I could muster.

"My brother is a grown-ass adult," he bites out. "He can make his own decisions."

Jerk.

"Please, Jade," Andrew says. "I'm begging, here."

"You don't get it," I sigh, shaking my head at him. "Bailey's overselling me on this. I didn't fix my shoulder; I completely fucked it. I only made it better by making it worse. I can't help you, Andrew."

I take a deep breath because I will not cry in front of the Coleman brothers. I've cried enough this past week and I refuse to cry over this.

"How bad is it? What's the damage?" Andrew asks.

So, I tell him.

"My rotator cuff is completely shot and I have twenty percent permanent nerve damage."

There's a noticeable pause before anyone else speaks.

"Well... you know what they say," Andrew tries for a wry smile but it looks more like a grimace. "Practice makes perfect. I'll take the risk."

His words make me feel sick.

Scared by Andrew's determination to not seek professional help, I feel my own resolve begin to waver. If I don't do something and he won't let his brothers try, how long will it be before their 'guy' becomes available to help? I can't just leave him like this indefinitely – he'll be in agony.

And that's the thought that makes up my mind.

"We're going to need ice," I mutter, trying to remember what the articles had said.

Lucas tells Alex to go get some while I walk over to Andrew, trying to keep the vomit down so I don't accidentally spew all over him. The guy seems to be having a bad enough day, without me blowing chunks on him, too.

With one final warning to Andrew that this is going to hurt, I kneel down next to him and carefully take hold of his arm. I don't want to force anything that doesn't want to be forced; I don't want to make the same mistake twice.

My touch hurts him but, to his credit, Andrew doesn't complain.

Quick and clean; don't mess this up.

"Promise me you'll at least get your guy to check you over, when he's free," I sigh and, although the words are meant for Andrew, my eyes seek out Lucas.

Very slightly, Lucas gives a single nod of agreement.

"Sure thing," Andrew replies, his voice meek as he eyes me cautiously, as if he's also preparing himself not to vomit. I can't say I'd blame him, all that much. "Count down from five...?"

So, I do. Only, when I reach one, he backs out and asks me to start over.

"Drew," Finn groans.

"Do you want to swap?" Andrew snaps at him, his face (if possible) a shade paler than before.

"Do you want me to dislocate the other one?" Finn retaliates. I turn to look at him just in time to see Lucas reach out and smack him around the back of the head, to which Finn calls out a protest. "Hey!"

"Shut up," Lucas orders.

I turn back to Andrew and restart the count.

"Five..."

Andrew closes his eyes and takes a breath.

"Four..."

He scrunches up his face, bracing himself.

"Three..."

My ears start to ring, my stomach queasy, and this time I take a deep breath.

"Two!"

I try not to let myself think too much as I pull his arm out away from his body and guide it back up into the socket. I do my best to ignore Andrew's yell of pain, or the ringing in my ears as it grows even louder.

For one, horrifying second, I'm worried that it's not going to work – that I'm just making it worse – but then I hear the distinctive pop-crack of the bone finding its way home.

I let go of his arm and focus on breathing in and out, not caring as he curses me out with every name under the sun. The ringing in my ears starts to fade but the nausea remains, sickening as ever.

Finn is howling with laughter whilst Bailey is covering her eyes, looking so green she could spend her nights stealing Christmas trees.

"Gross," she grumbles.

"Savage," Finn laughs.

Don't spew.

"Wiggle your fingers," I instruct Andrew, ignoring everyone else as I focus on keeping my voice steady. He does as I tell him, though his eyes are a little stinky as he stares at me.

"What happened to counting down?" he complains.

I shrug and, ironically, my own shoulder gives out a little protest.

"You never said what I had to count down to," I reply, "and you would've stopped me again if I'd gone down to one. Reach across and touch your other shoulder."

He does as instructed, hissing in pain but otherwise able to reach his arm across. He doesn't seem to be missing any range of movement, but his shoulder is still swollen.

"You suck," he grumbles, sighing. "But thank you."

"You'll want to keep ice on it for a while, to get the swelling down," I say, standing up. My legs feel unsteady underneath me. "And you'll want to keep doped up on painkillers for a while, too. Maybe keep your arm in a sling for a few weeks to keep it rested. But, like I say, get your guy to check it out for you."

He nods and Alex hands him the ice.

And that seems to be the end of that.

I can feel my hands shaking and ball them into fists at my sides, wondering if anyone else has noticed or if I'm just being overly paranoid. I glance at the others as discreetly as possible, finding that Bailey is the only one watching me. I attempt a small smile and after a second or two she returns her attention to Andrew.

My heart races inside my ribcage, like a bird trying to break free, and I focus on trying to get it to slow down.

Breathe in. Breathe out. You're okay.

My heart doesn't believe me and the harder it thumps the heavier the feeling grows in my gut, sitting like a rock that restricts my airways and makes me feel even sicker.

Just breathe. Calm down. You're being stupid.

I quietly slip out of the room whilst everyone else is distracted, Andrew's fake bravado about how "it didn't really hurt" giving me enough wriggle room to leave unnoticed. Once out in the hallway, I make a beeline for the only other room in the house that I know, closing the kitchen door behind me.

For a split second, I wonder if it would be considered rude – me wandering around a house that isn't mine – but then I figure fixing a dislocated shoulder gives me a free pass to some peace and quiet. And if it doesn't then, well, I don't really care.

The only thing I care about in this moment is getting this awful feeling bubbling up inside of me to go away.

This hasn't happened in years; I thought I'd gotten past this.

I try focusing on something – anything – else. I look around the kitchen for a distraction.

The room looks exactly as it had the last time I was here, the only difference being the collection of glasses placed out on the drying wrack next to the sink.

I decide to run my hands under the cold tap, hoping the cool water will help as I remind myself to breathe with every inhale and exhale.

"You're being ridiculous," I whisper to myself, watching the water splash against my skin.

I don't know how long I stand there for, it could be seconds or it could be minutes, but the water doesn't really help much.

With a sigh, I turn the tap off and grab the folded tea towel from off the counter to dry my hands, folding it back up and returning it when I'm done. Then, I unfold and refold it three more times.

I sigh and run my hands through my hair, feeling frustrated and jittery – like a bottle of pop that's been shaken a little too much as I desperately try to keep a lid on everything.

I want to go home.

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes me jump. I spin to face the door, and manage to knock a glass with my elbow as my eyes find Lucas. The glass smashes against the lino floor, reflecting the overhead light in a thousand tiny pieces.

Smooth move, dickhead.

"Sorry!" I apologise, shocked by my own clumsiness. "Shit."

Like a deer in headlights, I wait for his reaction, anticipating the anger that's sure to follow.

Instead, he simply stares at me, then at the mess on the floor, before saying, "Watch your step."

I stand still as he retrieves a broom from the utility room, and he ignores my offer to help as he starts to sweep up the shards of glass himself.

I watch the glass glide along the floor in silence, not sure whether to stay or escape back to the living room whilst he's preoccupied with cleaning up my mess.

"What happened to your shoulder?"

His voice is as blunt as ever, but the question still surprises me.

"Hurt it," I reply, equally as blunt. I keep my response vague because, quite frankly, it's none of his business.

His lips lift into the hint of a smirk, as if he's amused by my answer, but his eyes remain focussed on the glass on the ground. Once he's gathered it all into a neat pile, he finally glances at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Hurt yourself a lot?" he asks, motioning to my stomach with the tip of the broom handle before he leans it against the counter, trading it for a dustpan and brush.

I know he's referring to my scar and, as he crouches to sweep up the pile of glass, I try my best to think of a reply.

Only, I don't have one. So I stay silent.

It's strange – I'm so used to telling porkies about my past by now that, usually, I don't even have to think up a lie, they think up themselves. With Lucas, it's not that simple.

He just has those eyes, you know? He has the sort of eyes that see through all the bullshit. I'm not sure how else to describe it, but it's really unnerving.

I think he's good at reading people, because years of leading a life like his has probably turned him into a pretty well-tuned lie detector. Usually, he just doesn't care enough to ask, so there's never been much need to worry about his bullshit-o-meter before.

Please let it go...

I remain silent as he stands up and empties the glass into a bin next to the fridge. Thankfully, he doesn't push for answers. He seems quite content with the silence whilst I, still uncomfortable by the questions about my past, wish I'd taken the chance when I'd had it to escape back to the living room.

If he notices my discomfort, he doesn't comment on it.

"It's getting dark," he says instead, after a heartbeat or two of silence, once he's returned the broom and pan back to the utility room. "I'll drive you both home."

I'm too relieved by the thought of leaving, so I don't bother turning down the ride. Besides, the sooner we get back, the less chance we have of any raised suspicions back at home.

After saying our goodbyes to the others, and telling Andrew to take it easy, Bailey and I walk with Lucas to the car.

It's a silent journey, but not necessarily the awkward kind. I lean my head against the passenger window, forcing my mind to process nothing but the lights and colours of the outside world as they blur by. I'm tired of thinking.

Bailey's quiet in the back, so I think she's tired, too.

"Thanks for fixing up my brother," Lucas says as he pulls up a few doors down from our house.

I smile in response, once again surprised by his words. I've become so accustomed to his short, blunt persona by now – anything past the three syllable limit is considered unexpected.

"Thanks for driving us home," I reply before climbing out to join Bailey on the pavement.

As we walk towards our front door, Bailey catches my eye. She doesn't look worried, exactly, but she's not wearing the usual scowl she saves especially for me.

"You good?" she asks.

Two words – only two – but they mean the world to me.

"I'm fine," I reply, using the same lie I've been perfecting all week.

*********

(Disclaimer: I am in no way medically trained. I'm sure there are many inaccuracies in this chapter, but for the sake of the storyline, please bear with them! Thank you!)

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