Page 122 of Dash

My throat is so tight, I can’t swallow. I grip the bedrail with one hand and lace my fingers through his with the other.

He’s warm, not cold. Not gone. I let out a sharp sob.

I cry until my throat burns.

And only then do I pull up the plastic chair to the side of the bed and sink into it.

And then I wait. I wait for so long, my legs go numb and my eyes get heavy.

My head is pounding, my gut turning itself inside out, but I don’t move.

I won’t.

I hold his hand, my lips pressed against his knuckles, begging him to wake up.

I don’t know how long I sit for, but my eyes are drifting closed. I was exhausted before this, and now, I’m barely functioning.

I want to sleep.

I want to fix my spine.

Then I feel it—the twitch of his fingers in mine. I snap my head up to see his eyes open, glossy, but looking at me.

I don’t even try to stop the ugly sob that rips out of me.

Relief, fear, everything collides inside me until I can barely breathe through my sobs.

He tries to speak, tries to reassure me, but his eyes flutter shut and he’s gone.

It’s hours before he wakes again, and this time when he does, his eyes are clearer.

“Are you okay?” he rasps, as if he isn’t the one lying in a bed, his insides stitched together.

I laugh through my cry. “You’re the one with a hole in your belly and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

“You look tired.”

“I am. You told me you’d never leave me, and then I get a call hours later that you’re on death’s door. Excuse me if I haven’t had time to catch my usual forty winks.”

The lazy twitch of his lips is the best gift I’ve ever received. He’s in there, fighting, still him.

“You still look beautiful to me.”

I let myself smile. “I look like a half-feral troll.”

He closes his eyes, his voice sleepy. “Woman, would you just let me give you a compliment?”

“I can’t. I’m stressed.” I press my head to his hand and let the pressure in my chest finally ease. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Not ever. I’m not cut out to sit in waiting rooms or hold bedside vigils. And I’m really ugly when I cry.”

His eyes open, glassy and tired. “I’m sorry you had to.” He trails his fingers over the top of my head. “But I told you, I’ll always come back to you. Not even getting stabbed could keep me away.”

I glare at him. “Too soon to joke about that. The stitches aren’t even set yet.”

“I’m not joking.”

I know he’s not. Whatever happens, he’ll always fight to come back to me and that’s everything.

EPILOGUE

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