Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
Paul
The reflex to reach for my glasses the moment I wake up is so ingrained that it operates completely independently of consciousness.
When I do, Ridge’s room comes into focus in stages.
The wheelchair, Ridge folded into it in a position that is going to cost him when he wakes up.
Lennon, still asleep beside me.
Nevan taking off his mittens, unzipping his sleeping bag, and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
When he notices me watching, he smiles vaguely.
“I would really appreciate it if you stopped drawing spiders on everything.”
Nevan cringes. “I’m so sorry. Ridge—”
“Made you do it, I know.”
My shoulder protests when I get up and stretch. That I had expected, but my lower back contributes several additional opinions.
“How about you change your warm-up to flowers?” I suggest through a groan.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Nevan’s chuckle follows me to the adjacent bathroom.
Cold water.
Mirror.
Breathing.
Routine.
I brace both hands on the sink and stare at my reflection. Finding clarity is generally one of my more reliable skills. I’ve spent years cultivating the ability to step outside the immediate, locate the underlying rational framework, and make decisions from there.
Lennon and everything related to her is fundamentally incompatible with this process.
I glance down at my watch.
10:22 a.m.
I’m standing in Ridge’s bathroom, connected to his room, in my home. My hands are wet, and my reflection is looking back at me as expected.
I glance at my watch again.
Still 10:22 a.m.
Still waking life.
Still impossible.
There is no scientific framework that adequately explains this new sensation in the middle of my chest. Science does not currently acknowledge dream tethers, nor does it account for soul contracts, or strange women who casually explain interdimensional mechanics over tea.
My entire professional life, I’ve pursued evidence-based reasoning, but now I have no choice but to examine metaphysical attachment theory.
I hang my head.
I offered a soul contract and made a formal declaration of love in a candy-themed dreamscape while a six-foot-seven man threw gummy bears at my ex-best friend.
No.
Best friend, again.
And co-boyfriend. Soulmate. Tether.
There are no peer-reviewed journals for this.
When I lift my head, my reflection looks exactly as tired as I feel.
I turn and glance into the bedroom. Lennon hasn’t moved.
If she doesn’t wake up this time, then what’s next?
Nevan is standing beside Ridge, carefully trying to adjust Ridge’s head so it’s not resting at a painful angle.
The sight triggers something in my memory.
“Stop looking only at yourself, and you’ll see them,” Seraphine’s voice echoes in my head. “Turn, and you will see them next to you.”
I look at the three of them as I remember the card Seraphine pressed against my chest. The one I glanced at but left in my back pocket of my pants since then.
Strength.
I have absolutely no idea what this card means. I’m not into Tarot in the slightest and have never even had the faintest interest in accumulating knowledge of it, but paired with the words she whispered in my ear, it makes sense.
“Sometimes we have to sacrifice ourselves for the ones we love.”
“Paul! Paul, I think she’s…”
Nevan’s sharp tone has me moving into the bedroom in an instant.
Ridge stirs in the chair as I pass him, but I barely register it because Lennon is looking at me.
Her eyes are open, light blue, tired, slightly confused, but very much aware and here.
“Darling.” I cross the room in three long strides and lean down, cupping her face.
God.
I close my eyes and kiss her cheek. The clenching in my chest and the irritating burning behind my eyes show me how little faith I had that she would actually wake up today.
Nevan sits on her other side, holding her hand, a look of wonder on his face.
“How are you feeling, Lemon?”
“Weird,” Lennon rasps, her voice thin. She swallows, then tries again. “I feel weird.”
Her hand goes up toward the nasal tube, and she frowns, scrunching up her nose.
Nevan smooths his thumb over the bridge of her nose while I gently guide her hand away from the tube.
“Don’t. The nurse should arrive in a few minutes. I’ll ask if we can remove it.”
I hold her hand between mine as she looks around the bedroom, then back at Ridge. “Did you seriously kidnap me?”
“Sorry, sweetheart, I would have tidied up a bit,” Ridge says from his chair, voice rough with sleep. “If I’d known you were waking up in my bed today. And I prefer the term reloca—”
“That was me,” I say, cutting him off. “I’m sorry. I should have asked.”
The doorbell rings, and we all turn our heads toward the sound.
“I’ll let her in,” Nevan says, squeezing Lennon’s hand once before leaving for the front door.
I keep Lennon’s other hand in mine and stroke my thumb across her knuckles. “Any nausea? Dizziness? A headache? Any other symptoms?”
There’s something sarcastic trying to form in her expression, but she’s too exhausted to fully commit to it. “Is embarrassment a symptom?”
“With Ridge in the room?” I ask, making a show of thinking the question through. “Constantly.”
“Ha,” Ridge says, making Lennon’s mouth twitch.
Nevan returns with the nurse behind him, and Lennon straightens, her cheeks flushing. The embarrassment she was talking about is, in fact, real.
“Do you want us here?” I ask her softly. “Or would you prefer some privacy with the nurse?”
Relief flashes across her face. “Privacy, please.”
“Of course.” I bring her knuckles to my lips and kiss them. “Good answer.”
Her cheeks flush even redder.
Interesting.
One more kiss, then I carefully place her hand onto the bed. “We’ll be right outside.”
I usher the other two toward the door before either of them can say something profoundly unhelpful. I know they want to because Ridge appears offended and Nevan is walking as slowly as possible, looking at Lennon like he’d prefer to remain attached to her hand indefinitely.
I have to nudge them out of the room more forcefully before closing the door behind us.
For a moment, nobody says anything, then Ridge points at Nevan. “You threw a gummy bear at my head during a life-changing romantic moment.”
“What?” Nevan questions, looking entirely unrepentant. “Should we have just watched you two making out?”
“I was confessing my love.”
“You were making out.”
“Those are not mutually exclusive activities.”
The argument continues as I move into the kitchen, something about gummy bear-based assault and boundaries. I stop listening and instead concentrate on the espresso machine, sighing as it gurgles to life.
Lennon is awake.
Not trapped.
Awake.
The relief is so profound that it becomes difficult to let myself feel it at all. So naturally, my brain decides to think about worst-case scenarios and circles back to the Strength card and Seraphine’s words.
“Sometimes we have to sacrifice ourselves for the ones we love.”
I dislike prophecies on principle. They are vague, unhelpful, and tend to arrive without actionable next steps. But if this ends badly for me, and given Seraphine’s track record, it probably will, I should at least update my will.
The house goes to Lennon. That part is obvious. I practically renovated it for her, and my woman needs a home. A real one. Not somewhere she’s temporarily staying while waiting for the next disaster to arrive.
The car goes to Nevan. But does he even have a driver’s license?
He gets the car anyway. He can figure the rest out.
And Ridge gets the plants, purely out of spite.
I get exactly one second of satisfaction picturing him eighty years old and still arguing with a Ficus before my brain is already moving on to who gets the first-aid kit, to whether Renee would keep checking in on them the way she checks on me, to whether any of them would remember to water the…
“Is there food?”
I nearly drop the coffee scoop. Ridge is wheeling into the kitchen with Nevan close behind, and I have never in my life been so grateful for a stupid question.
“Define food,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Breakfast,” he delivers helpfully.
Nevan opens the refrigerator, already seeming at home here, something I notice with satisfaction, and looks inside. “There are eggs.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “I could make scrambled ones for everyone.”
Scrambled eggs. They’re a safe food with a texture I can predict, but I have no data on Nevan’s cooking.
Probability of a safe outcome—unclear.
Nevan’s face is open, the offer genuine, and I think about how I told him to trust us.
“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”
He pulls the carton of eggs out, and before I can second-guess it, footsteps sound in the living room, and the nurse appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Dr. Bennett?”
“Yes? Is everything all right?”
“Everything looks very good.” She smiles.
“I removed the nasal cannula and the catheter. Her vitals are stable, her oxygen levels look good, and her blood pressure is too. She’s a little weak, which is expected, but overall, she’s doing remarkably well.
I will still inform the doctor on call to come and check on her. ”
Nevan exhales loudly, and Ridge leans back in his chair.
“That’s encouraging,” I say, but my hands shake.
Now that I’ve thought about Seraphine’s prediction, I can’t get it out of my mind. I can’t stop picturing the three of them living here without me.
“Although, there is one thing,” the nurse says, grabbing my complete attention.
The coffee machine finishes with a hiss, but none of us look at it.
“I offered to help her shower,” she says quietly. “She refused. She said Dr. Bennett would help her instead.”
There’s a beat of silence, but then I’m moving. “Excuse me,” I say to no one in particular, walking straight to Ridge’s bedroom.
By the time I’m there, my hands are steady.
My heart has slowed.
Lennon is sitting on the edge of the mattress, wearing only the sleep shirt Nora had dressed her in. And when she gives me a soft, embarrassed smile, my existence narrows down to only her.