Really his wife. Not the ghost of one.
"Okay," I say.
Garrett goes still. "What?"
"Okay." My voice is stronger this time, steadier than it's been in months. Maybe years. "I'll go. I'll do the twelve weeks. I'll try. I really—" I have to stop as a sob escapes, breaking through the wall I've built around my heart. "I'll really try this time. I promise."
For a moment, he just stares at me.
Like he can't quite believe what he's hearing.
Like he's braced himself for rejection and doesn't know what to do with acceptance.
Then his face crumples—this mountain of a man, this Sergeant at Arms who makes grown men nervous—crumples like a child who's just been told Christmas isn't cancelled after all.
"Vanna." My name is a prayer on his lips, a benediction, a hallelujah.
He brings my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to my knuckles, his lips warm against my too-cold skin, and I feel the wetness of his tears seeping into my pores.
"I'm scared," I admit. "I'm so fucking scared, Bloodhound. What if I can't do it? What if I'm too far gone?"
"You're not." He lifts his head, and his eyes are red-rimmed but fierce. Warrior's eyes. "You're still here. You're still fighting. That means you're not too far gone."
"I've been so lost..."
"Then let me help you find your way back." He cups my face in his hands, thumbs brushing away my tears. "I can't do the work for you. I know that. But I can make sure you know you're not alone. That you have someone waiting for you on the other side."
On the other side.
Like there's a life beyond addiction.
Like there's a future where I'm not constantly chasing my next hit, constantly disappointing everyone who loves me, constantly running from the person I've become.
I want to believe that's possible.
I want it so badly it aches.
"One week," I say. "When do we leave?"
"I'll make the calls tomorrow. We can drive up together." He pauses, something flickering in his eyes—vulnerability, maybe. Or hope. "If that's what you want."
Together.
The word feels foreign after years of pushing him away.
Years of choosing drugs over his arms, needles over his love.
Years of running in the opposite direction every time he reached for me.
"Yeah," I whisper. "That's what I want."
He kisses my forehead, his lips lingering against my skin.
I close my eyes and breathe him in—leather and oil and something uniquely him, a scent that has meant safety since I was a girl with scraped knees and stars in my eyes.
"Get some rest," he murmurs. "I'll be right here."
"You should go home. Sleep in a real bed."
