Page 46 of Shattered Lives

I hurry in front of Tucker and block his path. "He was in a lot of pain. Let me check on him before you barge in there braying like a donkey.”

Tucker looks offended. "What makes you think I'd do that?"

I roll my eyes. "History. Now wait outside." I knock softly and peek around the door. "Mark?"

He's lying on the chaise, his left arm covering his eyes. I slip inside and close the door behind me.

“Hey, Big Guy. You awake?” He sighs heavily but doesn’t move his arm. I cross the room to kneel by the chaise, placing my hand on his shoulder.

“I was hoping they wouldn’t come by right as they pulled up,” he murmurs.

“Are you still hurting? I can tell them you aren’t up to a visit. I’ll keep them company for a while and they can come back another day.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll still be a goddamn useless cripple no matter what day they show up.”

I gasp in shock. “Mark! That’s not true!”

From behind me, Tucker shoves the door open and stops before bellowing through cupped hands. “Chand-ler!” Then he beelines straight to Mark.

“Tucker!” Lila chides, scurrying in right behind him.

“Keep laying there like Sleeping Beauty and I swear to God, I’ll kiss you right on that pretty mouth of yours,” Tucker announces, rounding the foot of the bed and stopping at the chaise. “Now get your lazy ass up here so my wife can hug you.”

His words aren’t issued as a request.

Tucker grabs Mark’s hand, easily hoisting him to a sitting position. As I watch Mark’s expression change, I smile. A visit from Tucker and Lila is exactly what he needs.

Mark swings his left leg around and reaches for his crutches, then slowly maneuvers to a standing position. Tucker pulls him into a tight hug. “Glad you’re home, brother,” he says gruffly, thumping his back as he holds onto him longer than necessary.

“Yeah, well, keep those bristly walrus lips to yourself,” Mark mutters, and I chuckle.

Lila is right behind Tucker, impatiently waiting her turn before pushing him out of her way. She gives Mark a long hug and a quick kiss. “You look good,” she says, holding his face between her hands and kissing him again despite Tucker’s vehement protests in the background. “I’m so glad you’re home. This is where you belong.” Tears shine in her violet eyes.

Mark kisses her delicate cheek and returns her hug. “It’s good to see you.” I hear his surprised undertone and smile.

“Alright, enough mushy shit,” Tucker declares. “We hanging out in here?”

Mark shakes his head. “I’ve spent enough time in bed to last a lifetime. Lead the way. I’m right behind you.”

We relocate to the living room. Mark reclines on one sofa and the rest of us gather around him. I pour red wine and we unwind, conversation flowing as easily between us as it always has. Mark studies Lila and Tucker nervously before gradually relaxing, and I realize he’s been waiting for them to stare at his leg or ask questions.

But no one does. We discuss random, everyday things. We bring him up to speed on local life: the town of Cedar Ridge; Tucker’s three brothers, Joey, Ethan, and Shepherd; Lila’s farm animal obsession; and Tucker and Lila’s jobs as a gym owner/ personal trainer and a wellness clinic co-owner/ massage therapist. Nothing exotic, just ordinary, everyday topics.

It’s wonderful, and I know Mark feels it, even if he isn’t aware of it. During his time at Brooke, everyone constantly asked how he was feeling. It was necessary in order to care for him, but it was also an inescapable reminder of his brokenness. An evening of listening to Tucker describe his younger brothers’ escapades and Lila explain why she named her goats after supermodels (including accidentally naming one after Tom’s ex-wife, Chele) is doing wonders for him. He actually looks like he feels – well, happy.

I haven’t seen him look like that since before his injury.

After about forty-five minutes, Lila and I break away to finish dinner preparations. I light the grill, basking in the cool dusk air as sparks shoot skyward from the charcoal.

It’s going to be okay.

He’s home.

MARK

The light-hearted living room conversation puts me at ease, and the red wine relaxes me even more. No one has stared at my hideous half-leg or asked how I feel. It’s really good not to have my injuries be the center of attention. Instead, I’m listening to Lila’s stories about life on the homestead, as she calls it. She has goats. Lots of goats. And horses.

I’m intrigued by this disclosure. Lila looks like she belongs in a sequined gown on a runway, not mucking out stalls. The fact she named her goats after supermodels from the nineties makes me laugh out loud. There’s Kate Moss, an angular Nubian goat; Chele, a dark and exotic beauty; Cindy Crawford, who has a facial marking reminiscent of that famous mole; Carol Alt, a lithe beauty with piercing blue eyes; and Heidi Klum, a goat whose breed I can’t recall, but it’s German. I listen in utter fascination. Even with her colorful stories, I still can’t picture Lila with goats any more than I can envision the Pope making twenty-dollar bills rain at a strip club.

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