Page 68 of Less

“I'm right here, Rusty.”

Her fingers squeeze mine.

“I'm okay. It’s okay.”

Bullshit.

She's pale.

Shaking.

There's dust all over her—hair, face, clothes.

A fucking scratch right on her hairline.

A bigger scrape on her arm.

And every protective instinct inside me is losing its collective mind.

The female EMT gives me a sympathetic look.

“She's lucky.”

I close my eyes.

Lucky.

I hate that word.

Lucky means chance.

Chance means maybe.

Maybe means uncertainty.

And I don't do uncertainty.

I do plans.

I do preparation.

I do keeping my girl alive.

Amanda smiles weakly.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself, Rusty. I swear I’ve never been so fucking scared,” I murmur, hating the vulnerability I feel, but letting her see it all the same.

She deserves that from me. She deserves everything.

She nods and takes my hand. Amanda sniffs and squeezes it tight.

And I’m just so fucking happy she’s here, safe, with me.

“You tackled me,” she says, trying to lighten the mood.

“I'll do it again.”