TWENTY-THREE
HAYDEN
BOSTON
DECEMBER
“Ah!” I hiss, trying to keep my voice quiet so I don’t wake up Emerald.
“Oh, yeah, you’re a real tough guy—don’t be a baby!” Linda hisses right back at me, her tone all maternal scolding. She holds the icepack against my cheek, pressing it firmly. The flash of pain eases as the cold cools my heated, swollen skin.
“I let you boys out of my sight for one darn minute, and you get into a bar fight.”
Tim and I got back to the hospital ten minutes ago. On the walk back, I kept wondering what the hell we were going to tell Linda and Emerald when they saw my busted knuckles and bruised eye.
“Bar fight,” Tim said as soon as we walked into the room.
Linda had gasped so loudly that I worried Emerald would wake, but my girl was deep under. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I couldn’t help but go to her. After what I had just done, I needed my wife. To remind me that I’m not just a monster, a brute, a goon whose only purpose is swinging his fists.
The adrenaline and beer buzz have drained from my body, and I don’t feel proud of what I did. If Tim hadn’t busted that door down, I wouldn’t have stopped. Then I’d be sitting in a prison cell for a murder charge. I shiver, thinking of that possible future.
Torn away from Emerald forever .
Linda sees my shiver and gestures for Emerald’s rainbow blanket, folded at the edge of the bed. She gestures to Tim for it and to me to take off my coat. Tim wraps the blanket around me, and I immediately sink my nose into the soft fabric. Emerald.
And I'm calm.
My thoughts untangle themselves, and I can focus.
I don’t know if Doyle will turn himself in. I hope he does.
If he doesn’t, then I hope he can fucking live with it.
But I truly think Tim’s words got through to him.
“You beat my little girl.”
When he said he didn’t remember hurting Emerald, it made me sick, because Emerald will never forget. I will never forget.
But he’s able to forget, and that’s just not fair.
As Linda keeps the ice pack on my cheek, I’m sitting close enough to the bed to touch Emerald.
I hover my hand over hers—not touching, just close enough to feel her there.
My hands are still bloody, and my knuckles are torn open.
The sight of my wrecked hands hovering over her clean skin feels almost obscene.
Emerald’s eyelashes twitch as if she’s dreaming, and the sight of it makes me smile. I hope for good dreams for her.
Only good dreams.
“Bar fight,” Linda mutters, shaking her head. “Who the hell did you fight?”
“The man who did this to Emerald,” I murmur, not taking my eyes from my wife. Linda’s hand freezes, and she inhales sharply.
“Hayden...” she whispers, sounding both horrified and heartbroken. She presses the icepack back to my cheek, and I finally meet her gaze. Her green eyes—the same shade as Emerald— narrow.
“Did you kick his ass?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my lips twitching. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Linda curse before.
“Good,” she nods, before peering at me. “And do you feel better?”
My smile dies, and I shake my head.
“Good!” She whisper-shouts, giving me a sharp look. “Because that was very stupid! You could have been thrown in jail! What do you think Emerald would think about that? Huh?”
My ears burn, and I mutter, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“You better be, Hayden Sawyer!” She growls, Tim’s mouth curving into a grin that he catches. “Timothy Osgood, you better wipe that look off your face! I am not pleased with you either!”
“I know, sweetheart,” Tim just grins wider. “I’m sorry.”
She huffs, pointing at each of us.
“You two are never allowed out alone again, do you hear me?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Unbelievable.”
An hour later, Tim’s driving Linda back to the rental and asks if I want to come. I take one look at Emerald and shake my head. I don’t wake up on Christmas morning without Emerald. I haven’t done so in eight years; I’m not starting now.
After I thoroughly wash my hands and poke at my rapidly bruising cheek for a few minutes, I walk back out and take the seat by Emerald’s bed. Linda left the string lights on, casting a golden glow on my wife as she rests.
She has three more weeks of her jaw being wired shut before it’s physical therapy and fixing her broken teeth.
The physical injuries are healing.
I don’t know about the mental ones yet.
One thing at a time.
I’m studying the cuts that will become brand new scars to add to my already wrecked hands, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
Glancing up, I freeze. Emerald’s eyes are open, and when I fully turn to her, her eyes go wide. She sits up toward me, wincing slightly at the movement of her ribs.
I go to gently push her back.
“Emerald—”
Then stop, because— oh, God —her hands are on my face.
Her hands are on my face.
My wife’s hands are touching my face.
Emerald’s soft fingers are gently trailing over my bruised cheek and eye. My eyes almost fall closed in pure pleasure, but that would mean looking away from Emerald.
And I would rather die.
So much time without my wife’s touch. Weeks. I was starving—deservedly so—but now this is a feast.
Emerald’s face is so devastatingly concerned, and she gestures vaguely with one hand while keeping the other on my face. What happened?
“I got into a fight,” I rumble, practically purring under her touch.
She sends me a very dry look— no shit, Sherlock —and it’s so cute, it actually makes me grin.
“I won,” I murmur, shrugging.
Her brow furrows, and her eyes narrow; she flicks my nose with her fingers, making me smile. It’s a little insane how just that lifts my mood almost instantly.
It’s Emerald. She’s my joy.
As light as a feather, her fingertips trace over the bruise. I swear I would go back for more right now if it meant Emerald would keep touching me. With one hand, she gestures to the whiteboard, and I grab it, then hand it back to her.
Unfortunately, that takes her touch away from me, but it’s like I can still feel the buzzing warmth of her fingers on my face. I close my eyes and bask in it until she taps me.
Who?
“I... the man who hurt you.”
Emerald looks like she doesn’t want to ask the next question, but does so anyway. I’m sitting right next to her, so I watch her write out the words, my stomach dropping with each letter.
Did you kill him?
I shake my head. “No. I... your dad... no, I didn’t.”
Emerald’s eyes soften at me, stumbling over my words.
Good.
I nod, and her mouth twists as she quickly writes something else.
Would not like conjugal visits.
I blink. Again. Trying to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing.
The thing about Emerald’s humor is that there’s always a layer of truth underneath.
Conjugal visits. The joke lights a hope in my chest I haven’t felt in weeks. I would never give up on Emerald, but I wouldn’t blame Emerald if she gave up on me. But she’s not. Somehow, she hasn’t given up on me.
And maybe she hasn’t given up on our marriage .
“Orange isn’t really my color,” I grin. “You know this. I’m more of a—what was it?”
Winter, Emerald’s lips twitch into the tiniest smile.
“That’s right,” I grin, “I’m a winter, you’re a summer... my sunshine girl. ”
Emerald’s lips lift even more, and her eyes brighten—making my heart stutter at the beautiful sight.
Before the humor drops from her face quickly, reminding me of the reality.
“How was your session with Dr. Flores?” I ask, hesitating on the next question because I’m not exactly sure what words to use. “Are you... feeling better?”
Emerald considers that question for a long minute, marker hovering over the whiteboard.
Then her hand starts moving.
I’m tired.
I nod, even if I’m a little disappointed. I was enjoying talking to her, enjoying her opening up to me.
“Do you want to go to sleep?”
She exhales sharply through her nose, her brow knitted together, her nose crinkling, her lips tilted down as she—almost frantically—writes.
No. I’m tired. I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate it here. I hate this town. I hate these people. They’re so mean and cruel. They hate me. I didn’t do anything. I hate it here. I miss home. I miss our friends. I hate this place. I just want to go home—
“Baby,” I lay my hand over her hand, gently stopping her from her frantic writing. The words blur together too much for me to read them, but it’s like Emerald is pushing these words directly into my soul so deeply that I can feel them like a physical pain. Stabbing me over and over again.
“I’m so sorry, Emerald,” I rasp, the words scraping my throat raw.
Emerald’s breathing heavily, her chest heaving in and out as she looks at me, and then looks at the words.
I hate hating things. I don’t like hate. I don’t want to be like this. I feel angry all the time. I feel paranoid. Anyone who comes near me, I automatically think they hate me. I’m scared someone will take my picture again. I feel exposed.
While the words shatter me, I’m so damn glad she’s opening up. And to me. Even if it’s because I’m the only one here, it’s something.
And I’m holding onto it like it’s precious.
“It’s okay to be scared, and I know I’ve done nothing but fail you for the past year—” Emerald looks like she wants to protest, but I keep on. “But I promise you—I will always hear your concerns. I will always put you first—before everything. You are my home.”
She looks at me for a full minute, eyes caressing my face, before she sighs, erases the board, and writes again.
I’m tired of surviving things.
“I know. But you’re really fucking good at it.”
Emerald’s lips curve into a grin, and she makes a muffled laughing sound. My own smile widens—there’s my sunshine girl. Emerald reaches up to her face and touches her lips, her mouth, the wiring .
Emerald snorts and writes something down.
How are you the hockey player, and I got my teeth knocked out?
The reminder of her teeth being knocked out hurts, but Emerald being Emerald makes my heart warm.
“Because only you would be able to get your teeth knocked out and still joke about it,” I smile, and she snorts once more, writing something else.
Told you I was tough.
I nod eagerly, “The toughest, strongest, fiercest, bravest, most beautiful, incredible, smartest woman I’ve ever known.”
Emerald blushes and puts on a bashful face, twisting her finger on her pink cheek, making me laugh.
Aw shucks.
I smile until she continues to write.
Beautiful? I look grotesque.
“Nope. You look beautiful. Always,” I shake my head firmly, and her eyes shimmer.
I turn my hand over and lay it on the bed.
And after a moment, she places her hand in mine.
As if that’s all I needed, every bit of tension bleeds from my body.
“It’s your heart, baby. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. ”
My hand squeezes Emerald’s, and after a moment she squeezes mine back—three times. It feels like a code.
Emerald takes the marker again, her face twisting into an uncomfortable expression as she writes the words.
Weren’t you tempted? Ever?
I frown. “What do you mean?”
She huffs, before writing, her movements jerky.
Britney.
“No,” I shake my head firmly, just the thought of Britney making my skin crawl. “She’s not you. ”
Emerald blinks at those words.
“I just want you, Emerald. You’re my first love. My first... well, pretty much everything,” I blush, making her smile. “Always you.”
Emerald studies me for a long moment before she gives me a thumbs up. Then she smiles softly as she writes something down.
I love you.
I’m pretty sure I could power the city with the energy rushing through me, reading those words. Her hand finds mine, her reaching out to me this time. I lean down to press a kiss to her hand, lingering when I smell her—there she is, my Emerald.
“I love you.”
That’s it, isn’t it? The whole point. The whole reason. Everything else is just the in-between—hockey, work, life—but this love is the why. There’s no better out there for me. There’s no reason to keep searching when I have pure sunshine in front of me.
And she loves me.
I’ll never take that for granted.
Emerald smiles softly at me and reaches out, gently pushing some of my hair away from my face. Her fingers trail down my temple, my uninjured cheek, my beard, all the way down to my chin. It feels like heaven.
She glances around the room, smiling softly at the lights, the garland, even the little bow attached to the end of her hair. It’s quiet, but it’s there.
Joy.
There’s more healing that needs to be done. Rick is still out there. I don’t know if Doyle will turn himself in, but for a brief moment, here and now, I’m with Emerald. And all is well.
Emerald smiles and writes .
It’s Christmas.
I nod. “Merry Christmas, baby.”
Emerald scoots over on her bed, wincing slightly, and I once again go to stop her, to tell her to stop that, when she pats the space next to her. When I hesitate, she shoots me a look and pats it, rather impatiently.
Shaking with happiness, I quickly toe off my boots, tripping over myself a bit in my enthusiasm and making Emerald snicker. I shoot her a look before I grab the rainbow blanket, and gently—so gently—ease myself into the bed next to her.
It’s a careful game to adjust ourselves so I don’t jostle Emerald’s jaw, or her still-healing ribs, but eventually, I lean back against the elevated bed.
And I want to cry when Emerald cuddles into me. I adjust the rainbow blanket around us, and spoon Emerald from behind, both of us facing the window. My arms wrap around her, and with her right hand, she links our fingers together where they rest on her stomach.
We don’t say anything else. Just enjoy the silence. The snow gently falls, the lights casting a beautiful glow that feels like hope.
And I nuzzle into Emerald’s neck, grateful for the greatest present I’ve ever received.
Emerald.