“How do you know?”
“Because I love you. And what I had with Reina—whatever I thought it was—doesn’t come close to that. There’s no comparison.”
Her face softens, her eyes light up a little. Then, she wrinkles her nose thoughtfully. “Fox, why do you love me?”
I kiss her forehead. “I love you because you’re brave, kind, and generous. Because you’ve got a huge heart and the ability to love even those who don’t deserve it. Because when you walk into a room, any room, you make it brighter. Because I can’t live without your light, without your warmth—they make me a better person, every day.”
Her eyes fill with emotion, and there’s a light quiver in her voice when she asks, “Why did I love you?”
I kiss her lips, sliding my tongue inside her mouth to taste her because I need the intimacy. It’s quick, fast, and not nearly enough. But she’s not ready for more.
“Why don’t you tell me that when you get your memory back?”
She bites her bottom lip, her eyes clouded.
“Fox,” Lucy says, and her voice has a new quality to it.
It’s not the pleasant, careful tone she’s been using since the hospital. This has come up from a different space inside of her. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“My ribs hurt.”
The shift. The retreat back into the practical. I know this about her—the way she uses the concrete to step back from the edge of anything too large to manage.
I understand.
“Let’s get you some painkillers.”
“I don’t want them.” She shakes her head. “They make me—I can’t think on them. I keep falling asleep and I can’t—“ She stops. “I don’t want to sleep right now.”
“Okay.” I stand. “I’ll get something lighter. The ones they gave for?—“
“Fox.” I shut up. “Will you lie with me?”
I get into bed with her.
She shifts against the pillows, carefully, her pain evident in every movement, and she reaches out. Not much. Just enough. Her hand finds mine.
I close my fingers around hers and rest my shoulder close to hers.
She stiffens briefly, then settles.
“The peonies are extraordinary,” I remark. Because they are. Because she made them.
“Your mother hates them.”
“My mother has terrible taste.”
She chuckles.
I turn and press my lips to her cheek—the skin of the woman I have been an idiot about for the duration of our marriage and will not be anymore.
She breathes, shallow and careful.
And at that moment, in our bed in our home as I hold her hand, I have never in my life been more certain of anything than I am of this:I am not letting her go.
Not again. Not ever again.
