Filepe runs point. Luis handles the vehicle. The whole operation moves likeclockwork.
We make it to the SUV without incident. Jess guides Ben into her seat. Buckles her in. Frederick secured beside her. Probably would have been better to go home alone if we really wanted to avoid attracting paparazzi, but I prefer it this way.
I climb in after. Every movement sends fresh pain radiating through my shoulder.
Worth it to be going home.
Jag takes the driver’s seat.
Pulls out of the bay.
The familiar Manhattan traffic swallows us whole.
I lean my head back against the seat. Close my eyes.
How many weeks has it been? Feels like years.
Jess’s hand finds mine in the space between our seats.
I should feel something. Anything, at her touch.
But I feel nothing.
She squeezes once.
I squeeze back.
We’re going home. All of us. Alive. Together.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough to make up for what I put them through.
But it’s a start.
41
Jess
The hardest month of my life isn’t the one where my socials tanked and I lost half my views in a week.
It’s not even the one where I got lost in the woods as a kid and thought I’d die drinking creek water.
No. The hardest month of my life is the one where I sleep in a glorified closet on Ben’s floor while the man I love hides from me in a hospital room and his five-year-old daughter wakes up screaming every other night.
The one where I spend my days trying to homeschool that same traumatized daughter in a sterile room down the hall from her father, pretending coloring worksheets matter when a bear nearly kill him.
The one where I listen to Marco... beautiful, controlled, Michelin-star Marco... begging nurses for morphine like his life depends on it. Which, let’s be honest, it kind of does when your face has been ripped off and reattached.
And yeah, let’s not forget the actual bear attack itself. That fun little wilderness adventure that turned me into someone who can spray a grizzly in the face and feel absolutely nothing except pure fucking rage.
So yeah. This month wins the crown for absolute worst.
When Marco could finally go home, I should’ve felt relief. Should’ve been counting down the hours until we could leave that antiseptic-smelling nightmare behind.
Instead I’m standing in the foyer of his West Village townhouse watching Jag help Marco up the stairs like he’s made of glass, and all I can think is:This is going to get worse before it gets better.
“Jess?” Ben tugs my hand. Frederick is wedged under her other arm, looking more worn than usual. “Is Daddy going to be okay now that we’re home?”
I crouch down to her level. Force my face into something resembling confidence. “Yeah, sweet girl. He just needs some rest.”
