Page 93 of Just This Once

“Yes, of course.”

“Fix your…kitchen too,” he says, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion.

“You won’t be fixing anythingfor a long time.”

He lifts his arm about three inches up from the bed like he’s a tough guy. “This? It’s nothin’.”

I snort a laugh. “I love you.”

“Say…again?” He squints at me. “Couldn’t hear.”

I gently brush my hand over his forehead and hair, tracing the tip of my nose down his, breathing my words into his mouth. “I love you.”

He groans in satisfaction.

I step back. “And you almost died.”

He groans in displeasure.

“No more motorcycles. Swear it, Dante. I can’t take it. I can’t go through this again. Neither can you.”

He points his index finger at me, mouth curving in an approximation of a smile. “You love…me.”

“Yes. That’s why you need to get rid of the motorcycle. No more. Promise me. I can’t lose you. The kids can’t lose you.”

He frowns. “The kids.”

“Yes, they were really upset when I told them you were here. That you had an accident.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and I can tell he’s fading fast, sleep pulling him back under.

“Don’t scare us again like that. We need you. Please, Dante. Don’t leave us.” I sit on the edge of the bed, a few inches of space, and he reaches for my hand, directing it to his head. When I understand what he wants, I pet him, and he nuzzles into my palm on his cheek. “I love you.”

He smiles sleepily, eyes closed. “I want…you. The kids. I love you…all.”

“I know.” I trace his cheekbone, the shell of his ear. “I can never pay you back for everything you’ve done for us, that I know you’ll do for us, but I’ll try.”

He shakes his head, barely a movement. “Love is free.”

“Love is free,” I repeat back in a whisper, my nose stinging. “Sleep now.”

His eyelids crack open as his fingertips inch toward my thigh. “Stay.”

“I’ll stay right here. I won’t move. I promise. Now, be a good boy and sleep.”

Even in this state, he can’t stop his flirtatious innuendos, the tip of his tongue barely poking out of the corner of his mouth, and I laugh because it can be translated in a few ways. All of them lewd.

But then he relaxes, and I stay exactly where I am, skating my hand down his shoulder and arm, passing over the place where the IV is stuck into him, to his long fingers, and eventually to his torso. I’m afraid to press anywhere that he might have broken bones, so I settle my palm on the middle of his chest, barely enough to feel the slow yet steady rise and fall of every breath. Then I lay two fingers at the base of his throat, finding his pulse.

The proof of his life.

His love.

Mine.

It is a long time before I’m willing to shift even a centimeter, but I turn to relieve the kink in my neck and inspect the room. The curtains across the window are open a few inches, and early morning light spills through the slim break, a stream of hazy sunshine that highlights the whiteboard on the wall, noting Dante’s information along with his nurse’s name: Violet.

My breath catches, skin peppering with goose bumps, and I tilt my head up to the ceiling as I close my eyes, smiling to myself. “Thanks, Mom.”

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