31. Nate
thirty-one
Nate
Lucy frowns in the soft lantern light as she ducks into our small tent. “Where’s Quinn?”
I search her face as she zips the door closed behind her. “She’s with Mom and Dad.”
She turns her frown to me as her eyes widen. “Why?”
I shrug. Because I asked Mom if Quinn could stay with them so I could talk to Lucy alone, but I’m not going to admit that yet. “Mom wanted to give us the night off.”
Her eyes meet mine for a long moment, then she sighs and sinks onto her air mattress, wafting the citrusy scent of the shampoo from her still-wet hair across the small space.
She tugs at her pajamas—the white ones with the teddy bears—like she’s uncomfortable, so I avert my gaze to give her a moment.
Once she settles on her air mattress on the other side of the tent, I turn the lantern off and roll onto my side to face her.
The moonlight illuminates the tent walls, and I can barely make out her profile against the nylon.
She’s within arm’s reach in this confined space, but it feels like she’s a mile away.
I clear my throat and keep my voice low, aware that it would be easy to be overheard in this small clearing full of our friends. “I’m sorry… about earlier this week.”
She freezes, and her breathing quiets. “What do you mean?”
I draw a deep breath and hold it. “I broke my promise after Quinn’s first steps. I… let things go too far.”
The silence from her side of the tent is unnerving. I release my breath in a long, slow exhale. I hear her air mattress squeak as she rolls onto her side. Her voice is quieter, like she’s facing away from me. “It’s fine. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I frown. If I didn’t do anything wrong, then why has she been so distant? “If I hurt you, Luce, I’m sorry.”
Her air mattress squeaks as she turns again. This time her voice sounds louder, like she’s facing me. “If Quinn hadn’t crashed her walker into the gate, what would have happened?”
I clear my throat, tempted to turn the lantern on so I can see her expression. I keep my voice low. “I would have kissed you and broken my promise not to push a physical relationship on you—not to touch you without your permission.”
I can hear her breath leave in a rush. “Did you want to kiss me?”
Is she serious? How could I not want to kiss her? “Yes.”
“Would you have regretted it?”
I close my eyes and clench my jaw. “Yes. I don’t want to hurt you, and I always keep my promises.”
She’s silent for so long that I start to wonder if she’s fallen asleep. Her voice is quiet in the dark tent. “Will you make me another promise?”
I purse my lips. “Maybe.”
“The next time you want to touch me, or hold me, or even kiss me… Ask.”
My heart thuds wildly in my chest. “Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I stare into the darkness on her side of the tent for a long time.
In the moonlight, I can almost make out the lump that is Lucy curled on her side.
As her breathing slows and evens in sleep, I’m still rolling her words around in my mind, praying that the next time the opportunity to kiss her presents itself, she’ll say yes.
The alarm sounds, the noise splitting the darkness, and I jump out of bed, rushing with my crew to the truck parked in the bay of the fire station.
As I step into my boots and bunker pants, pulling the suspenders up on my way to the truck, I’m already mapping the quickest route to the address dispatch announced over the speakers.
My heart sinks as I start the engine and read the call on the computer screen—car vs. motorcycle MVA, one unresponsive.
A moment later, the crew is loaded, and we roll out, lights and sirens blazing, to respond to the wreck. Dispatch calls in more information, and the crew discusses their approach plan, but I can’t find the words to participate.
I’m good at my job. I’m confident behind the wheel of this engine. But as I navigate some of the lesser-known roads in the Nashville area, I can’t shake the sense of foreboding and the feeling that this is too familiar.
My mind forms the image that has haunted me for months, despite never seeing it myself. The twisted hunk of metal that used to be a motorcycle, the crushed ruins of the car that collided with it, the helmets—the ones I researched and bought for them to make sure they had the best on the market.
“Caller confirms—only one motorcyclist.”
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the image and its effect. It’s not them.
When I roll up to the scene, I position the truck to block oncoming traffic, and the headlights illuminate the wreckage. As I apply the brake, I notice a head of golden-blonde hair, and my body goes cold.
Everything is numb as I slide out of the truck and run toward her, silently begging God—please, not her.
But as I approach, my stomach drops.
Lucy.
“Nate.”
My wife.
“Nate. Wake up.”
Wide blue eyes and a head of golden-blonde hair hover over me in the dim lantern light as my eyes fly open. My air mattress squeaks as I sit up and cup her face in my hands. Tears sting my eyes, and I can’t draw a full breath as adrenaline has my heart thundering in my chest.
Lucy sets her hands on my shoulders and speaks softly. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I slide off the mattress and onto my knees, kneeling in front of Lucy as I stroke her face and let my eyes roam the rest of her, checking to make sure that she’s really okay.
My breath hitches, and she rubs my shoulders soothingly. “Breathe, Nate.”
I try to do as she says, but the air keeps getting caught somewhere around my sternum. She shifts onto her knees in front of me and slides her hands up to my neck. “Look at me, Nate.”
I haven’t stopped looking at her since my eyes opened. I can’t stop. If I look away, I might see that haunting image from my nightmare.
Her deep blue eyes bounce between mine. “It was a dream. You’re safe, and I’m here.”
She’s here. Not at the wreck site from my nightmare. Right here in front of me, whole and breathing. She’s okay.
“Good,” she whispers. “Keep breathing.”
She runs her hands up and down my arms, and I try to time my breaths to the slow, soothing motion. I let my eyes slide shut for a moment, but as soon as the image of Lucy on the ground at the wreck site materializes, I open them and check on her again.
Her wide eyes continue roaming my face as she runs her hands up and down my arms.
I set my hands on her waist as I finally catch my breath. “Can I… hold you?” I draw a ragged breath. “Just for a minute.”
Her eyes are full of concern, but she nods and wraps her arms around my neck. I hold her tightly, pulling her in close as I drop my forehead to her shoulder and breathe in her comforting scent while we kneel in the small space between our air mattresses.
She’s okay. She’s alive. It was just a dream.
She runs her hands across my back and shoulders, and I relax under her touch. She leans her cheek against mine and speaks quietly in my ear, “This one was worse than usual, wasn’t it?”
I clench my jaw and tighten my arms around her. I wish I were surprised that she knows about my nightmares, but our rooms are right down the hall from each other.
I blow a long breath and nod into her shoulder, my hands gripping her sides reflexively. “So much worse.”
Her arms tighten around me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I lift my head from her shoulder and shake it, letting myself act on the urge to push her hair back from her face and tuck it behind her ear. “No. I’m sorry about this. I hate that I woke you.”
Her eyes roam my face, and she runs a hand up and down my back. “It’s okay. How can I help you get back to sleep?”
My heart thuds in my chest, and I drop my gaze, trying not to let myself feel embarrassed. I clear my throat. “Just… stay close. Please.”
She nods and stands, straightening her pajamas.
My body goes cold at the sudden loss of her embrace.
She scoots her air mattress closer, and I slide back onto mine, afraid to go back to sleep and pick up where I left off in the nightmare.
She pulls her blankets back and settles on her mattress, right next to mine.
She tosses the blankets back over herself, and I have to refrain from tucking her in to make sure she’s warm and safe.
Her deep blue eyes find mine, and she pats my pillow. “Lie down. You’re safe, and I’m here.”
I clench my jaw and do as she says. When my head hits the pillow, I reach for her hand. She meets my gaze as she weaves our fingers together, and I sigh. Her eyes dart between mine. “Light on or off?”
I release a long breath and whisper. “Off.”
She reaches behind our mattresses and turns off the lantern, never letting go of my hand as she settles back down in the darkness.
Just before her breathing slows and evens out again, she runs her thumb along my knuckle and squeezes my fingers.
The pressure in my chest loosens with her gesture, but I’m wide awake.
Dreaming that I arrived too late at my sister and brother-in-law’s wreck site—something that never even happened in reality—was bad enough.
Arriving at the scene to find my wife on the pavement…
I hope I never see that image again as long as I live.
The steady rhythm of Lucy’s breathing and the soft pressure of her hand in mine slowly calm my racing heart. The cover of darkness gives me confidence to admit a few things to myself.
The first is that Lucy means more to me than just healthcare and childcare.
And the second is that I would not survive losing her.