Chapter 13 #2
He was in a hospital. The smell hit him next—that particular combination of disinfectant and floor wax and human suffering that couldn’t be masked.
He tried to piece together how he’d gotten here, his mind sluggish and foggy. The IV in his arm. The steady beep of monitors. The tight pull of stitches in his side.
The cave.
They’d been trapped in the cave. Meg had been there, and Alex—the kid’s pale face, his swollen leg—and—
Ryan.
The memory slammed into him with brutal clarity—unfiltered and raw.
Ryan Bradley with a gun pointed at Meg. The fight—bodies slamming together and grappling for the weapon.
The knife biting into his side, that hot punch of metal parting flesh.
The gun going off between them—muffled and wet—and Ryan sliding down the wall. Blood spreading across his shirt.
Noah’s chest tightened, his breathing picking up speed. Each inhale was shallow and insufficient.
The explosives.
The cave rigged to blow. Ryan’s dying words. Less than an hour. Everywhere. You’ll never find them all.
Noah reached for the call button, but he couldn’t find it. Couldn’t focus through the panic clawing up his throat. His fingers fumbled along the bed rail.
Where was Meg?
He tried to sit up, but pain lanced through his side—sharp, immediate, very much demanding attention now. It stole his breath and made his vision gray at the edges. The monitors beside him started beeping faster.
She’s dead.
The thought came cold and certain. Everything good in his life was eventually taken away. That was the pattern.
Mary.
Penelope.
And now Meg.
He’d promised to protect her. Promised they’d get out. And he’d failed.
The beeping grew more insistent. Alarms sounded—sharp chirps that cut through the fog.
A nurse rushed in, her scrubs decorated with cartoon cats. “Mr. Wilde, you need to calm down.” Her hands were on his shoulders—firm and professional—and tried to ease him back against the pillows, but he fought against her.
“Meg—” Her name came out as barely a rasp. His throat was raw. “Dr. Lewis.”
“Sir, please, you need to lie back. Your wound—”
The door opened.
And Meg hurried in.
“Noah, you are okay.”
For a moment, Noah’s mind couldn’t process it. She was supposed to be dead. Buried under tons of limestone. Gone like everyone else he’d ever loved.
But she was there in Chewbacca scrubs—absurdly cheerful cartoon Wookiees against a blue background—with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Dark circles under her eyes like bruises. Exhaustion carved into every line of her face.
But very much alive.
Real.
Solid.
Here.
Relief hit him like a physical blow. Like someone had reached into his chest and released a fist that had been squeezing his heart.
Not dead. Not buried. Not another name added to the list of people he’d failed to save.
The tightness in his chest loosened, the panic receding like a wave pulling back from shore. The nurse said something about getting the doctor—her voice professional and routine—but it faded into the background just before she slipped out.
Leaving them alone.
The room settled into a different kind of quiet—comfortable and intimate.
Through the partially open blinds, Noah could see the parking lot below, the evening sun casting long shadows across the pavement.
Golden-hour light. Everything washed in amber.
Somewhere down the hall, a television played quietly—the muted sounds of a game show. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
“I’m so glad you are okay.”
Meg’s fingers laced through his, and he felt the slight tremor in them—that fine vibration that spoke of adrenaline crash and exhaustion and relief.
“Me? You got out,” he managed, his voice rough. Each word took effort. His hand tightened around hers and anchored him to this moment, to her presence. “And Alex?”
“Expected to make a full recovery.” She wiped away a tear with her free hand.
“You just missed Liam and Teague. They’ll be back.
Liam volunteered to take you home, which, if all goes well, will be in two days.
They’re already arranging the shift to help you while you recover, although they know you will want a say. ”
“As long as you’re there, I don’t care what they choose.”
She was alive.
That was all that mattered. Everything else—the pain in his side, the grueling recovery ahead, the physical therapy, the slow return to normal—all of it was bearable if she was there.
Her eyes shifted away from his and focused on some point beyond his shoulder. The window. The wall. Anything but him.
There was something in it that made the whole room tilt and made his stomach drop.
No.
“Meg?”
She let go of his hand—the loss immediate and physical—and drew a slow breath as if she was gathering courage.
The loss of contact felt like a small death.
“Virgil found a replacement. I am leaving for Pennsylvania on Wednesday.”
The words hit him like a punch. Worse than the knife. At least that had been expected once the fight started.
This blindsided him.
“You can’t leave.”
When she didn’t respond—just stood there looking anywhere but at him—he pushed on, desperation creeping into his voice. “Fine. We’ll do long distance, and at the end of the season, I’ll join you in Pennsylvania.”
She crossed her arms across her stomach—defensive posture—then stared out the window. The parking lot below was emptying as the day shift ended, with cars pulling away one by one. Heading to problems that didn’t involve caves and explosives and near-death experiences.
“I think it is better to end things. Not drag it out.”
“You don’t get to do that.” The words hit with surprising strength—anger had broken through the fog of pain medication.
She blinked, her eyes snapping back to his face. “Noah—”
“You don’t get to make this decision for both of us.” He tried to push himself up but failed, his muscles trembling with the effort—weak and useless. Pain shot through his side like lightning. The stitches pulled and burned. “Not like this.”
The irony of his words wasn’t lost on him. He’d made decisions for them for the last month. Pushed her away. Avoided her. Decided for both of them what was best.
But things were different.
Weren’t they?
She finally turned toward him. “You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.” His hand found hers again and held tight. He refused to let her retreat. “Don’t just run. Talk to me.”
Her composure cracked, the careful mask she’d been wearing since she entered the room finally shattering. All the pieces she’d been holding together came apart.
“I froze, Noah. When you were bleeding out, when your life was on the line—I completely froze. If Teague and Liam hadn’t shown up when they did, you would have died. Because I couldn’t function. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t do the one thing I trained my entire adult life to do.”
“You saved Alex’s leg,” he said with gentle insistence. “You were a good doctor down there.”
“Only because you were there to calm me down!” The words burst out of her, raw and desperate, her voice rising and cracking. “Don’t you see? When I was working on Alex, you talked me through it. You kept me grounded. But when it was you—” Her voice broke.
“The nightmares are back. Only now it’s not my brother under the water staring up at me. It’s you. It’s always you. Your face. Your blood on my hands. And I can’t—”
“So you’re running,” he said quietly. “Just like before. Only this time you are pushing me away because—why?”
She flinched, her whole body jerking back slightly. Her arms tightened across her stomach. “I’m not running. It is a good job opportunity. A job I can succeed at.”
“Then let me join you.”
She shook her head. “You’ll thank me later. You want a life of adventure, and I need calmness.”
“I’m not Andy.”
“What?”
“Andy, who made you feel like you had to change—to fix yourself—to be with him. I love you, Meg. Not who you could be, but who you are. Rough edges and all. Panic attacks and nightmares and the way you freeze when you’re scared. All of it.”
Tears streamed down her face and cut tracks through the exhaustion written in every line of her features. “You said that the canyon became your refuge. Your home. It’s become my nightmare. We don’t work.”
“You’re wrong. I love you and I know you love me.”
“You can’t love someone who falls apart when you need them most.”
He pulled her closer—using strength he didn’t know he had—until their faces were inches apart. Until he could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes.
“I don’t need you to be fixed first. I don’t need you to have your panic attacks under control or your nightmares resolved or your trauma neatly packaged away before I can love you. You froze for a moment. One moment. And then you kept going.”
“You almost died,” she whispered, her breath warm against his face. “And I couldn’t save you.”
“But I didn’t die.”
She shook her head and took a step back, pulling away from his touch like it burned. “I already accepted the job. I think it will be better to start fresh. Clean slate. New life.”
“Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”
“I have to go. Goodbye, Noah.”
With that she walked out, her footsteps quick and purposeful. The door whispered shut behind her with a soft pneumatic hiss that sounded like finality.
Everything in Noah wanted to chase after her, to argue with her and tell her over and over that she wasn’t broken. That he loved her just the way she was, panic attacks and nightmares and all. That she was enough. More than enough.
But he couldn’t get out of this stinking bed.
The IV line tethered him, plastic tubing snaking from his arm. The surgical drains collecting fluid from his wound. The monitors with their tangled wires tracking his breaking heart. His body was a prison of pain and weakness.
But even if he could…she hadn’t believed him when he’d said it the first time. Why would she believe now? How did you convince someone to stay when they’d already decided you were better off without them?