“I do,” she said quietly.
My throat closed up. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. My Adam’s apple bobbed as I swallowed hard, trying to get control of the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
“Wow. This is beautiful, Jess. It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me.”
I reached out to take the painting, and she let me hold it even though I knew she was worried I’d drop it. I stared at it, taking in every detail—the way she’d layered the colors, the movement in the composition, the vivid intimacy of it. This wasn’t something she’d painted for a client or for a gallery. This was personal. This was her heart, stitches and all.
I handed it back to her, not trusting myself to hold it any longer.
“Thank you.” My voice was gruff. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Can I get you anything?”
“Just you. I know it’s early, but I really want to go to sleep, knowing you’re with me.”
“Give me five minutes.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I lay there, the weight of the day settling over me. My body hurt everywhere. Miles had texted earlier to say they were managing fine without me, which was both reassuring and vaguely insulting. I couldn’t ride my motorcycle anymore, not that I’d want to after this. I couldn’t even shower by myself.
But Jesse was here. She’d saved my life, stayed by my side, brought me home. She’d painted me something so beautiful it made my soul ache.
The word for next year was ‘gratitude,’ and lying here, I understood why I’d chosen it. I was grateful for every painful breath, every aching muscle, every reminder that I was still alive.Grateful that the brakes had failed on a city street and not a highway. Grateful that I’d worn my helmet. Grateful that Jesse had O negative blood. Grateful that I’d get to wake up tomorrow and see her face.
She came back quickly, dressed in sleep shorts and a T-shirt, her face scrubbed clean. She stretched out on the bed beside me, careful not to jostle the pillow supporting my arm.
“Now everything feels right,” I said, smiling.
I closed my eyes, and for the first time since the accident, I felt safe. Not just physically safe, but safe in the deeper sense—safe to be vulnerable, safe to be weak, safe to need someone. Jesse made me feel that way.
I don’t know when I fell asleep, but it was the best sleep I’d had in days.
* * *
A starving Robin woke me the following morning. The kitten was yowling as though he’d been abandoned on a desert island for weeks, pacing across my chest with his tiny, surprisingly heavy paws. Each step sent a spike of pain through my ribs.
“Robin, buddy, get off,” I mumbled.
Jesse stirred beside me, then jolted awake. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Let me—”
She scooped up the kitten and hurried out of the room, whispering apologies to both of us. I heard the sound of cat food hitting a bowl, then the shower running.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, taking inventory. My shoulder hurt. My ribs hurt. My leg hurt. But it was a different kind of hurt than yesterday—less acute, more manageable. My body was remembering how to function, one painful breath at a time.
The shower turned off. I heard Jesse moving around the apartment, the coffee maker gurgling, cabinets opening and closing. The smell of fresh coffee drifted into the bedroom. My stomach growled.
When she came back to get dressed, I was waiting for her.
“Hey, beautiful, how about helping me up and into the bathroom? Then, I’d kill for a cup of coffee and some of your scrambled eggs.”
She laughed. “My scrambled eggs could kill you.”
I shook my head, grinning. “Nothing made with love can ever hurt me.”
It was cheesy as hell, but I meant it. I’d survived a motorcycle accident, emergency surgery, and three days in the ICU. I could survive Jesse’s cooking.
Besides, I had to get well quickly to pull off the surprise that the accident had postponed.
Chapter Thirty-Four
