32. abbi
ABBI
Finally!
He’s finally let me inside and opened up to me about that awful day. I watched his reinforced walls fall and crumble as he shared his horrific story.
I feel like I’m doing cartwheels inside my body with the sheer amount of joy filling me.
Not joyful at hearing his story or about how helpless he felt—because it was devastating and terrifying and painful to listen to him share his experience—but joy that he’s finally sharing this part of himself with me.
He’s been so closed off for so long that I thought he always would be.
I couldn’t cope with being shut out when we used to share everything—divorce seemed my only option.
I hated that he only shared the surface-level stuff with me and wouldn’t let me in any deeper.
But here we are. He’s finally letting me see the parts of him he’s hidden away.
It feels momentous, giving me hope that we’ll make it through this turbulent time.
I grin at him. “I guess so.”
His half-smile drops, and his expression grows serious.
“I need you to know that my priority is getting back to you in every way. That means I have a plan to ensure it’s safe for us to share a bed again.
I just need you to be patient.” His steely eyes implore me to let him have this.
To give him the time he needs to repair this last broken piece.
When I consider how far we’ve come, I know without a doubt he’ll do everything in his power to make this right. “I can be patient. For you, I can be patient.”
His chest rises and falls with a harsh breath that gushes from him. The tension coiled in his muscles slackens, and I can almost see his relief as if it’s a tangible thing. Leaning in, his mouth brushes mine. “Thank you,” he whispers roughly, his lips touching mine with each syllable.
His hand glides up my spine in a sweeping caress until he reaches the back of my neck.
Slipping his fingers into my hair, he tightens his hold and tugs gently.
The light pull against my scalp draws my head back, and his eyes blaze into mine for a long moment that reaches to the deepest depths of my heart and soul.
Closing the distance, he kisses me. Deeply and with affection.
I return his kiss with all the love blooming inside me.
His tongue skates against mine, and memories flood my mind of years ago when we would spend afternoons kissing instead of doing homework.
It was the most connected I’d ever felt to another person.
Having Nix’s sole attention was heady in a way that I felt I needed it to survive.
His fingers tighten in my hair and he deepens the kiss further.
I match him stroke for stroke, breath for breath.
I tighten my hold around his shoulders and change my position until I’m straddling him.
His fingers dig into my hips, grounding me in the moment.
My heart thunders in my chest like a storm, sending my blood flooding through my veins.
Heat expands outward, my body flushing with arousal.
Nix and I have always been combustible, and nothing’s changed. He just does it for me. His body still calls to mine the same as it did when we were teenagers. It’s a deep connection that transcends explanation.
A knock echoes through the room. “Breakfast.”
Our lips separate, but it’s difficult to drag myself away from Nix fully. It takes a little while before my dizziness clears, and our surroundings return to full focus. My lips widen as I take in my husband’s flushed cheeks and unfocused gaze. Good to know I have the same effect on him.
We hustle toward Murphy’s room hand in hand; our fingers linked together as if we’ll never let go. It feels incredible to be this connected again.
When we breach his doorway, my heart leaps out of my chest and rolls to the floor at my feet. I scan the room and come up empty; the only sound in my ears is the blood gushing through my body. I glance at Nix as he tugs me toward the bathroom, but it’s empty too.
“Where is he?” Panic makes my voice sound too squeaky to my ears.
Nix squeezes my hand, slowing my racing thoughts. “Let’s go find a nurse and ask,” he suggests calmly. Not a lot phases my husband, but I sense the tension coiling in his muscles.
We almost bump into one of the nurses who’s attended to Murphy’s care as we cross the threshold into the corridor. She smiles brightly at us. “Good morning.”
A minuscule amount of tension releases from my back. She’s smiling and doesn’t look concerned about anything. Surely that means Murphy’s okay and nothing terrible has happened to our son. I blow out a breath and attempt a pleasant smile to go with my greeting. “Where’s Murphy?”
So much for a pleasant greeting. But my worry outweighs my ability to be polite. Normally, it’s my superpower. Not today.
“Oh, he’s downstairs in the therapy room.” Her excitement dances across her features and in the way she waves her hands around. She tells us where we can find the therapy room, and Nix tightens his hold on my hand, tugging me along to the elevator.
“Therapy?” I wonder aloud to Nix.
“They usually aim to get people moving pretty fast after an amputation. So they probably have Murphy walking,” Nix explains.
“Walking?” The elevator arrives, and we climb on. My mind spins as the elevator descends. This feels too soon. Shouldn’t he be resting?
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “They don’t waste any time. The sooner they can get patients mobile, the sooner they can press forward with their recovery. It’s better in the long term.”
I shake my head. “He just lost part of his leg. How’s he supposed to be mobile already?
” I can’t wrap my head around it. It seems impossible.
The elevator doors open, and Nix tugs me forward, while I’m too busy worrying about Murphy to focus.
My stomach swoops down to my toes with each step we take; it twists and turns and rolls with concern for his well-being.
We stop outside the treatment room door.
Nix squeezes my hand as we both peer through the window insert, looking for our son.
The room is larger than I anticipated, and it’s busy.
Several men and women are stretching, walking, and balancing, obviously in various stages of recovery.
My eyes land on Murphy across the room, near a wall of windows.
He has some kind of contraption on his leg, and he’s walking between two balance beams; his knuckles white, and concentration tightens his features.
My heart stops—it literally skips a beat—as a gasp bursts over my lips.
I glance at Nix, but he’s focused on Murphy as if this is something he sees every day, and I guess in a way he’s desensitized to this type of thing, though I have to assume it’s different seeing your son recovering from a major injury.
He said as much yesterday. It’s why he had that night terror.
My hand flutters at my throat and I adjust my turtleneck to ensure all the bruising is covered.
It looks worse today, even though it doesn’t feel as tender as it did yesterday.
With our fingers still linked, Nix pushes through the door, taking brisk strides as he weaves us between the other patients toward our son.
Murphy hasn’t spotted us yet, too focused on staying upright with each step he takes.
The young man working with him sings words of praise as if he’s a famous rapper, while sweat beads along Murphy’s temples from exertion and his biceps strain beneath his T-shirt.
He’s wearing clothes. Not a hospital gown, but real clothes that we brought for him from home.
That alone has to make him feel better, less like an invalid. More like our Murphy.
My breath freezes in my lungs as he reaches the end of the bars, and his therapist helps him into his wheelchair. “You were incredible, Murph,” he explains. My eyebrows rise. They’re already on a friendly basis. I wonder how long he’s been at it.
Murphy’s chest rises and falls rapidly. He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together in consternation. “I feel like I just trekked twenty miles across the desert wearing a full pack,” he pants.
“You pretty much did.”
Murphy waves his hand out in the direction of the parallel bars. “Bullshit. I took maybe ten steps, man.”
He looks at Murphy as if he has two heads.
“Are you for real? You do realize your body is in the process of healing and recovering. Not to mention relearning your center of gravity … your balance. The adjustments your entire musculoskeletal, physiological, and neurological systems have to make to account for only having one full leg is massive. Your body’s working fucking hard, man.
You need to acknowledge that, or you’ll do more harm than good,” he tells Murphy.
His voice is full of authority, yet still holds compassion.
Murphy shakes his head. “I want to do it again.”
Nix steps closer, and I stick by his side, concern for Murphy’s state of mind urging us closer.
He’s always been closer to Nix. His admiration and desire to be just like him meant he always listened to and followed Nix’s advice, except when it came to joining the military.
Nix didn’t want him to sign up, but after years of watching his dad serve, he was determined to follow in his footsteps. It’s the one time he didn’t listen.
Murphy turns his head, his eyes catching on us.
This close, I’m privy to more details; the obvious tightness around his eyes and mouth, the strain in the muscles down his neck, and the jutting of his collarbones.
He’s in a world of pain, and he’s lost a significant amount of weight.
I want to go to him, embrace him and tell him that he should rest, but everything in his demeanor says we’re not welcome here, so I freeze in place, pressing my lips together to block the words from escaping.