11. Cole
ELEVEN
Cole
ONE MONTH AFTER THE ACCIDENT
Morgan unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to me. “Alright, Sunshine. Are you ready?”
I shrug. Even with all the pain meds coursing through my veins, the ride home from the hospital was excruciating. I clenched the armrest and gritted my teeth with every bump and turn. Getting down from the truck and into the wheelchair will be equally excruciating.
He strokes my hair, and kisses my temple. “I know you’re in pain. I know you hate losing your independence, but you will get better.”
I smile so he doesn’t feel bad, but I would have rather died.
Not that I had a choice in the matter. I don’t resent him for saving me.
Well, I resent him a little. I’d have done the same thing though, and how was he supposed to know that I’d made peace with dying?
It just feels like I’m only alive for him.
Morgan opens the door, and I shiver as an icy breeze slips into the truck. He disappears into the dismal drizzle, gets the wheelchair out of the back seat, then opens my door for me.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.” I can bear a little weight now, but I can’t manage climbing out of the truck, so when he bends closer, I hook my hands around the back of his neck.
Pain shoots out from my lower back and hips as he scoops me up. A cold sweat breaks out on my skin, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. But I don’t gasp, or groan, or scream. I tuck my pain away inside, and clamp my mouth shut. The only control I have right now is how I react.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan whispers as he lowers me into the chair.
“It’s okay.” Shards of glass tear through my tailbone as I settle into the chair, but I don’t make a sound.
Returning to the old red brick building that houses our loft is an uncanny experience.
The peeling Marine Supply sign original to the historical building remains unchanged, and the timeless lobby still smells like old wood and dust. Morgan’s footsteps echo on the wide plank wood floors exactly the way they always have, but everything has changed.
While we wait for the elevator, Morgan bends and cups my cheek, tears glazing his vision. “I never thought I’d bring you home again.”
“I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
“Sweetheart, you didn’t cause it. The pain I’ve suffered is nothing compared to when I thought I lost you. I’ll gladly suffer through whatever heartache it takes to make you happy.”
“It doesn’t make me happy if you’re hurting.”
He cups my other cheek, framing my face, then kisses my forehead. “I’m not hurting. I’m healed. I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” I smile. Not all the way. I haven’t been able to smile since Seb died. I shouldn’t be allowed to smile.
At first, the loft itself feels just as much a time capsule as the rest of the building, but the longer I look, the more changes I find.
The plants on the oversized windowsill are surprisingly healthy, still in the same places I left them, but rotated slightly as if to give each leaf a chance to feel the sun’s warmth.
It smells clean inside, but astringently so, instead of the light scent of clove and mandarin from the cleaner I prefer.
Even so, it’s nice to be home where the lighting is soft, and the sheets aren’t starched, and no staff members will intrude on my privacy.
Morgan locks the door. “Do you want to try the walker?”
“Maybe tomorrow. Today was a lot.”
“That’s probably a good idea, but if you change your mind, let me know.”
“Thanks, babe.”
He wheels me deeper into the room. A wedge pillow rests against the headboard on my side, and the covers are already pulled back. An insulated straw tumbler and a basket of snacks are neatly positioned on the bedside table. My attention snags on the little forest of house plants again.
“I’m shocked you kept them alive.”
“What?” He follows my gaze, and ducks his head sheepishly. “Oh. That was mostly Finn and Shay.”
“Finn’s been here?”
“Yeah. He left you a stack of coloring pages and a card.” Morgan reaches under the pillow and pulls them out. “He made me write this one for him.”
He passes me a store-bought card with a humpback whale standing on its tail, saying Get Whale Soon.
“That’s cute as hell.” I flip it open and read Morgan’s handwriting.
Hi, Uncle Cole,
This is Finn. I don’t know how to write, but Uncle Mor does, and he promised to give this to you.
Anyway, I miss you. A lot. I miss you almost as much as I miss Daddy. Make sure you eat all your vegetables, even the gross ones, so you get better faster (and I can see you sooner).
Okay. I love you so, so, so, so, so much. Bye!
Uncle Mor, did you tell him I love him so, so, so, so, so much?
Yes. I wrote ‘so’ 5 times.
Why are you still writing?
I’m not writing.
Stop.
Stop what?
Love, Finn
The scribble below must be his signature. My vision blurs on the page. I retrace my steps back behind the wall I built to keep my emotions out.
Morgan takes the card and sets it on top of the coloring pages. “Do you want to use the bathroom before you lie down?”
I sigh. “Yeah. I probably should.” Once I park myself in bed, I won’t want to move anymore.
“I have that bedside commode thing in the closet. I figured you wouldn’t want to look at it.” He rubs the back of his head, flexing his bicep. “Or you can try using our bathroom?”
“Our bathroom.”
“You got it.”
It was really thoughtful that he ensured I have the option of using the portable one while granting me the dignity of not having to look at the damn thing as soon as I got home. But using the plastic commode in the hospital was humiliating enough. I won’t do that again unless I have to.
He wheels me over to the bathroom door, and takes off my shoes and sweatpants. I can’t be bothered with underwear when everything hurts.
I loop my arms around his neck again. “Can you help me?”
Morgan nods, then carries me through the door. He lowers me onto the raised toilet seat, and pain radiates through my pelvis. Once I catch my breath, I thank him.
He smiles. “Anytime, Sunshine.”
Then, he kisses me—on a toilet. It shouldn’t be romantic, but it is because he thought of everything. Guilt overshadows the moment with the unwelcome thought that if I had died, he wouldn’t have to take care of me.
He strokes my arm. “Hey, are you okay?”
I nod.
“Need anything else?”
I shake my head.
He frowns. “You can talk to me.”
“I know.” I force a smile.
His troubled gaze remains, but he doesn’t press me. He pulls my phone out of his pocket and hands it to me, a simple nonverbal reminder to text him when I’m done instead of bellowing for him, another way he’s thoughtfully safeguarded my dignity.
“I’ll leave you to it.” He closes the door.
A weight lifts from my shoulders. I’m alone for the first time since Seb died. Even when Morgan left the hospital to run errands or spend time with Finn, I was still surrounded by people. I don’t have to hide how unhappy I am, how weak I feel, how much I wish I’d died instead of Seb.
It takes a few minutes to start a stream of urine. Everything is connected to my broken pelvis in one way or another, so even peeing hurts. Zarah, my pelvic physical therapist, promises it will get better with time, but it’s frustrating, regardless.
This part of my body that’s only ever given me sexual gratification doesn’t feel or work the way it’s supposed to. I don’t know if I’ll be able to bottom for Morgan again without it hurting, which makes me feel even more like a burden.
I flush the toilet, and text Morgan, who knocks on the door, and waits for me to answer before entering.
“Can I take a shower?” I clear my throat. “With you, I mean.”
He blinks. “Yeah, of course.”
While the shower heats up, he pulls a small space heater out from under the sink and plugs it in.
“You spoil me,” I say.
“If you think turning on a space heater in winter is spoiling, I need to step up my game.”
I roll my eyes, and take off my shirt while he undresses.
Obviously, at the hospital he kept most of his clothes on, so when he picks me up again, it’s the most skin-on-skin contact we’ve had since I got injured.
I melt against him, resting my cheek on the dark hair on his chest. Tears sting my eyes. I missed him so much.
He lowers me onto the shower chair, and switches to the handheld attachment to rinse my body.
“Mm,” I hum.
His shoulders relax, no longer cinched by his ears, but the wrinkle between his eyebrows and the tension in his jaw still lingers.
“You’re not hurting me,” I reassure him.
He exhales, then nods. “Good.” He arcs over me, and shampoos my hair, scrubbing my scalp decadently and conveniently positioning his cock in front of me.
I can’t help but take him in hand.
A shudder rumbles through him. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
It’s probably the worst hand job I’ve ever given him, but he doesn’t seem to care.
He braces himself on the back of the chair and buries his face in my neck, whimpering as I increase my speed.
It only takes a few minutes more for him to whisper that he’s close, and a few seconds later he trembles, then moans my name softly as he spills over my hand.
He wraps his arms around me, and I stroke his hair as he recovers. When his shoulders shake, I realize he’s crying.
“There’s no way you’re crying because of how incredible my performance was.”
He laughs and lifts his head. “You were perfect. I’m just so grateful you’re still here, and I have this second chance with you.”
“Me too,” I agree, but it comes out like an obligatory platitude.
He sniffs. “Alright, where was I?” He squirts body wash onto a fresh rag, but I stop him.
“Use your hands.” I crave physical connection, and I think he needs it too because his tears were from more than gratitude.
Bringing me home after he thought he’d have to bury me must be overwhelming. Plus, if the roles were reversed, and I had to watch Morgan suffer, I’d want to punch a wall or something just so he wouldn’t have to suffer alone. My poor husband has been through hell.