My body seems to know him. I find myself leaning toward him, wanting his arms around me. His energy—the way he moves—is familiar in a way nothing else has been since I woke up in this clinic three days ago.
But now, I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open. Lourdes comes in to offer us lunch, and gasps when she sees me.
With a flick of her hand, she tries to shoo AJ out of the room. “You. Move. She needs rest.”
I don’t want to sleep. What if I forget him all over again by the time I wake up? “Don’t go,” I whisper, reaching for AJ’s hand before he can get out of the nurse’s way.
My words surprise him. Understandable since they surprise me too.
His fingers are warm and strong. Not soft, but not rough either as he curls them around mine. “I ain’t leavin’ you, Grace. I promise.” He sets his shoulders and turns his gaze to Lourdes. “I can take her back to her room.”
With a huff, she shakes her head. “Okay. But you will let her sleep.”
The loss of his touch as he guides the wheelchair back to my little room hits me harder than I expect. I don’t think anyone besides Lourdes and Dr. Reyes has touched me—at least not kindly—in a very long time.
The beige walls almost glow this time of day, and the sun kisses the roses in the garden just outside the window. Marta—another one of the nurses—has picked me a single flower every day. Five of them now. The first is losing its petals. I feel like I am too.
AJ parks the wheelchair next to the bed, then pulls back the sheet and blanket. “Is it okay if I help you?”
I’ve ached to know what it’s like to have him hold me, but until now, wasn’t sure how to ask.
“I’d…like that.”
AJ leans down so I can drape my arms around his neck. He’s all firm muscles and long, lean lines. The room spins, the world’s worst tilt-a-whirl, but I’m not worried I’m going to fall. Not with his hands on my hips.
Too quickly, he lowers me onto the bed. But as soon as he helps me off with the thin hospital bathrobe, he freezes, his gaze fixed on the thick scars around my wrists.
Rage pours off of him in endless waves. “Fuck. Fuck!”
Fear steals my voice. I cower away from him, and Lourdes races into the room.
“Get out!” she snaps.
For a moment, I think he’ll leave, and that terrifies me more than his anger. He even takes two steps toward the door, tears brimming in his eyes. “Grace, I’m so sorry. For yelling, for not finding you sooner, for…everything. I don’t know how you’ll ever forgive me. You probably shouldn’t. But I’m gonna ask you anyway. Every day if I have to. Please. Let me stay.”
I wish I could tell him how I got those scars. Or that it wasn’t his fault. But the truth is…I don’t know.
The only thing I’m sure of right now is that I need him close. He makes me feel safe.
It takes me a full minute to find my voice. A full minute of him staring at me with tears carving shining trails down his cheeks and his trembling hands balled into fists.
When I do, the single word is strong and clear.
“Stay.”
Chapter Eighteen
AJ
The nurse—Lourdes—ain’t my biggest fan. Grace might have forgiven me for yelling, but Lourdes hasn’t. Every time she comes to check on Grace, she mutters under her breath in Spanish. I know enough of the language to recognize a couple of curse words and marido—husband. The rest is a mystery.
I sit in a hard, plastic chair next to the bed, unable to pull my gaze away from my wife’s face. The bruise spreads from her left temple halfway to her jaw, with a distinct waffle pattern from the sole of whoever kicked her.
On her right cheek, a scar slashes across her pale skin. It’s rough. Not from a knife—at least not a good one. All the shit I’ve seen in my career ain’t doing me any favors. My thoughts ping wildly with possibilities of what she endured the past three years.
My phone vibrates on the little table next to me, and I scramble to grab it before it disturbs Grace. She needs all the sleep she can get.
Jasper: Getting a little worried. Everything okay?
