Maggie
One month later
“Come on, Grandma.”
I grit my teeth, shuffling forward while white knuckling the walker. “Ian, you’re lucky I have no abdominal strength, or I’d punch you.”
His laughter causes my eyes to roll in amused annoyance. It’s so reassuring to hear his laugh when he rarely showed any ounce of happiness throughout the last month until the day he got to bring me home from the hospital.
This recovery has been quite the journey. When I woke up from the coma the doctors had put me in, I found out everything that had happened. My memory from that night is pretty fuzzy. But based on the haunted look on Ian’s face any time it gets brought up, it’s probably for the best.
I ended up having three surgeries and spent almostthree weeks in the hospital. The nurses and doctors were shocked and impressed with how much I’ve progressed, though I can’t take all the credit. Having Ian by my side almost every day and night has been a huge motivation for me to improve. I needed to heal for him. I needed to be healthy so that he stops blaming himself, because, while he hasn’t told me that explicitly, I know he does. The depth of pain that’s sometimes present in his eyes when he looks at me tells me everything I need to know.
But the second they said I’d be able to be discharged, his demeanor changed for the better. And it’s made me so happy to see. I still have quite a bit of recovery and rehab to go, but I feel stronger every day.
Except for this stupid walker. Because of the damage to a good chunk of my abdominal muscles, walking unassisted is difficult. My medical team is optimistic that physical therapy will help rebuild those areas quickly, once the rest of my body is healed enough.
I look around the hall as I shuffle toward the kitchen, smiling as I take in the new pictures of us hanging on his wall. Ella got a few pictures from her wedding framed for us while I was still in the hospital.
Even before I was discharged, Ian demanded that I move in with him. I was resistant to it at first, not wanting him to feel obligated to take care of me. But after two weeks of consistent badgering, I relented and agreed to move in. Ian smirked and said, “Thank goodness, because I already moved all your stuff out of your apartment and into my house.”
I couldn’t even be mad at him. I was all too happy to be coming home with him. The one thing Ian continues to ask me is if I want him to sell his house and move somewhere else. He’s worried about the trauma of having to live in theplace where I was attacked and be constantly reminded of it. I’ve told him over and over that when I look around his house, all I can see is us and our love. He put so much work into this house, and knowing how proud of it he is, I would never ask him to give it up.
Franklin calling last week, saying that Reese and David were apprehended after weeks on the run, helped both of us tremendously, too. But Ian seemed particularly relieved about it. That news has reduced the number of times he’s asked me if I want to move, so I’m hopeful he realizes I’m being honest when I say I want to stay.
Unfortunately, no one knows where Jenson is. He seems to have disappeared without a trace. But I have no doubt karma will get him eventually.
I hobble down the hall, sliding the walker across the floor. Ian stands at the end of the hall, looking delicious in grey sweats and a tight T-shirt, his hands on his hips, pulling it taut across his chest.
“Please let me help you.” His request sounds strained.
I know it’s killing him not to help me, but I told him I needed to do things on my own to continue building up my strength. It’s been difficult for him to stand back and let me struggle, even with my gentle reminder that this is good for me.
“Heck no. I made it down that hall in record time,” I retort, somewhat breathlessly from the effort.
He sighs as he continues watching me. “I made you lunch.”
My stomach growls in response. “Oh, thank goodness. Pushing this thing around is the best and worst workout of my life. I’m starving.”
When I finally make it to the dining room table, I moan at how good lunch smells. It’s tomato soup and not one buttwo grilled cheese sandwiches because I complained to Ian the other day that one is never enough. But the best part is the giant cup of coffee sitting at the top of my place setting.
I drop gingerly into the chair. “I’ve never been hornier.”
Ian groans next to me as he lays my napkin across my lap and helps me scoot in my chair. “Please don’t say that word until you’re completely healed.”
Laughing, I pick up my coffee cup and take a large gulp. “Ah, this is the best. Thank you, babe.”
Ian smiles as he sits next to me with his lunch and boring glass of water. “You’re welcome, beautiful.”
We eat for a few minutes in silence until Ian says, “I think everyone would love to see you. Do you feel up to having company for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Yes! I would love to see everyone.”
“Great, I’ll send out a text. Anything you’re in the mood for?”
I think for a few seconds before deciding. “Pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.”
“Done.”
