Grace
Wrapped in blankets on the couch, my sketchpad balanced on my thighs, I try to draw AJ. He’s in the kitchen making my favorite meal—extra spicy enchiladas—and he looks so serious.
I manage his hair. His forehead. His dark brows. His eyes. But then my hand starts to shake. What ends up on the page looks nothing like the man I love.
AJ brings me a cup of tea, presses a kiss to my forehead, and stares down at my half-finished attempt.
“I’m better at this when…” My throat tightens, trapping the words in my chest.
When my brain isn’t breaking in real time. When I’m not hours away from someone cutting into my skull. When I’m not terrified I’m about to lose everything.
He eases himself down, and takes the sketchbook. His big hand dwarfs the pencil. With a frown, his tongue trapped between his teeth, he starts to sketch. Quick, simple lines, his gaze flicking up to my face once. Twice.
In just a couple of minutes, he turns the pad around.
Two stick figures. One with long hair. Both with huge, lopsided grins.
The laugh starts deep in my belly, and before I know it, I can barely breathe with the force of it. “That’s…awful.”
“Everyone’s a critic,” he murmurs. “This is true genius.”
My laugh crumbles into a sob before I can stop it. I cover my face with my hands, my whole body shaking as I finally let go of all the fear I’ve been holding in for so long.
AJ wraps his arms around me, tugging me to his chest, holding on like he’ll never let go. “I’ve got you, darlin’.” His voice is rough and steady, but breaks on the last word. “No matter what happens tomorrow, I’ve got you.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to.
But tomorrow feels like a cliff, and I’m standing at the edge.
Although it’s unusually warm for late March, AJ builds a fire after dinner. He says it’ll help me sleep tonight, but that’s not the reason. He needed something to do with his hands besides hold me.
Curled up on the couch, Belle wedged between us like a furry chaperone, we try to watch a movie. But neither one of us pays much attention to the screen, and finally, he turns it off completely.
“I’m scared,” I whisper to break the oppressive silence filling the space between us. “More than I’ve ever been. Even more than…when I knew I was about to die.”
AJ’s hand finds mine. The calluses I don’t remember getting have finally faded, and his fingers are rough in comparison. Solid. Real.
“Me too.” The words are so raw, so ragged, they hit like knives, stripping away the last of my resolve to stay strong.
I blink against the sting in my eyes. “If I don’t remember…or if I don’t wake up at all?—”
“Don’t.” His grip tightens. “Don’t you dare.”
Tears spill anyway, carving hot trails down my cheeks. “I have to say it. I need you to know—Aaron, you’re the reason I’m still here. You’re why I fought when it would’ve been easier to give up. Why I’ve remembered anything at all. Why…I have to do this even though it could be the end of…me.”
His shoulders heave with one deep, shuddering breath. Hauling me into his lap—right over Belle—he touches his forehead to mine. “Grace, you listen now. If there’s one thing I know—one thing I’d bet my life on—it’s that you’re gonna wake up. You’re gonna come back to me. Again. And we’re gonna live the rest of our lives knowin’ that we can survive anything else this world throws at us.”
I bury my face in AJ’s neck, ugly, rough, loud sobs tearing out of me. He rocks me, whispers reassurances into my hair, and presses his lips to my temple like he can anchor me to this world by sheer will alone.
When I have no more tears to cry, I raise my head. His eyes are wet too. I cup his cheek, and he leans into my touch. “If…shit. I don’t want our last memories of each other to be of fear.”
His gaze churns, the blue depths of his eyes darkening. “Then give me this instead.”
And he kisses me.
Slowly. Achingly. Reverently.
It’s a promise. A reminder of everything we’ve fought for. Everything we can’t lose.
