Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
Paisley
A guttural scream ripped me from a restless doze. I bolted up in bed. Where was I? What time was it? I struggled to gather my wits and my glasses before I staggered into the hallway.
Another cry cut through the air into my sleep-drunk brain. It’s Greyson. He needs me.
I crept into the darkened room, illuminated only by the dim night-light coming from down the hall. I could just make out the thrashing figure on the bed. “Grey?”
I jumped as another tortured yell cut through the silence. What was happening? What was I supposed to do? Think, Paisley. Think! Pausing at the edge of the bed, I tried again. “Greyson. Wake up,” I said softly, then touched his bicep.
And before I could blink, I was flat on my back, the mattress supporting me as a huge man loomed on top of me.
“Grey! It’s me! Paisley!” I cried, hands pressing against his heart.
He froze, panting hard. Then he shifted, easing his weight away so we lay side by side. “Pais? What happened?” His voice was raspy. “What did I do? Are you okay?”
It was a long string of questions for this man of few words. And his voice . . . He sounded so broken.
Without thinking, I touched his face. His cheeks were damp under my fingers, and my heart ached for him. “You were screaming, and I didn’t know how to wake you up. I’m sorry I . . . I couldn’t remember.”
“Oh, love.” His breathing still came in hard pants, and he shuddered uncontrollably. “Voice only, no touch,” he explained hoarsely. “No touch till I’m awake.” He inhaled sharply. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
My heart. I was at a loss at what to say. So I simply offered the first thing that came to mind. “Do you want a hug?”
He was quiet for a moment. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
I shifted and scooted to the head of the bed, reclining against the cushioned headboard and pillows. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be, Grey.” When he still hesitated, I reached out to stroke his stubbled cheek and added, “You’re always taking care of me. Let me return the favour.”
That was all the invitation Greyson needed, and a moment later, his sturdy arms draped around me and he relaxed into me, face buried in my neck. “You smell like strawberries. Like home.”
“It’s the shampoo.”
I toyed with his hair, rubbing circles over his back until his breathing evened out. “Do you want to talk about it? I should probably know this, but . . .”
The silence stretched between us, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he took a shuddering breath.
“I was overseas on my last deployment,” Greyson said, roughly. “Pretty routine stuff. Nothing that should have ended like it did. My buddy Liam and I served together until . . .”
I waited, my arms tightening a fraction as I braced myself for the dread pooling in my stomach.
“There was an accident. It was stupid. Preventable. A miscommunication that led to an ambush. And Liam . . .” Greyson shifted, pressing into me like I could keep him safe from the haunting nightmares.
“Just breathe,” I whispered, exaggerating my own breathing for him to follow. I’d witnessed panic attacks before. Stephanie got them in college, and one of us frequently squeezed her into a hug and did mirrored breathing.
“He had a wife and a baby boy who’d been born on deployment,” Greyson said at last. “He was so proud of her—of both of them. But he never got to meet him.” He sniffed, and warm tears fell on my neck. “It should have been me.”
The confession startled me. “What?”
“Liam saved me. I’d taken a hit to the gut. He came back for me.”
My mind instantly pulled up—in stellar detail—the jagged lines crisscrossing his abdomen. “He was your friend,” I whispered. “You’d have done the same for him.”
Greyson huffed. “Of course. But I didn’t have a wife and baby waiting for me.”
“Just me.”
He stiffened and lifted his head. “Pais, I didn’t—”
I shushed him. “I know. It’s okay.” I went back to rubbing rhythmic circles over his skin. It had lost the clammy feeling and felt warmer now.
“I tried to help him. I just . . . the blood . . . there was . . .” Greyson let the words fade off. He didn’t have all the words he needed, but I heard them just the same.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said gently. “But I’m also selfishly glad you’re still here. With me.” I lightly kissed his hair. “‘The true soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him—’”
“’But because he loves what is behind him.’” Greyson finished the Chesterton quote with a murmur. “And I do love you, Pais. You’ll never know just how much.” His grip on me tightened. “I never wanted to let you down.”
“I don’t need you to be perfect, Grey. I just need you to be you.”
We didn’t speak any more after that. Just let the sacred silence of the dark cocoon us.
I couldn’t fully imagine what it must have been like to watch someone so nobly sacrifice himself for you.
I hadn’t seen it in my childhood, that’s for certain.
But I knew a thing or two about survivor guilt and the clawing horror of events you could never seem to shake.
Eventually, Greyson sagged more fully in sleep, but still, I didn’t move. Didn’t want to risk waking him. So I stayed. Praying for the man in my arms. Praying for the wife and child left behind.
Because I’d meant every word I’d said. I was grateful to this unknown man who’d saved my husband, as selfish as that made me. I might have forgotten our life together from before, but I was quickly realizing I couldn’t imagine life going forward without him either.
There was no changing the past. All we could do was live forward.
And when I woke up to the stream of sunlight coming in the window the next morning, Greyson was still in my arms.