Page 67 of Someone Like You

Bri trampled over whatever he’d been about to say and firmly insisted, “This is his husband.” I slid my eyes to Bri, trying not to react because the doctor was looking intently from her to me and back again. His eyes slid down to my ringless hand.

“Riiight,” he said slowly. But he didn’t argue with her, and I was so thankful for her brashness that I wanted to kiss her.

On the cheek. To be clear.

Brody’s uncle said nothing, and I turned to Jordan and the rest of them. “Why don’t you guys go home and get some rest? Come back in the morning, if you want?” I was amazed that they’d all showed up in the first place. Jordan I expected, but everyone else? It made me feel like they actually cared, when no one had for so long. It was a really good feeling. “Thank you, guys. Seriously, thank you for being with me tonight. It means a lot.”

I hugged Jordan, promised to text him and keep him updated, and then they left. I followed after Bri, her uncle, and the dubious doctor, overwhelmed with relief that the surgery had gone smoothly, that Brody was okay, that he was going to wake up. Nobody was walking fast enough, and I had to curb the urge to just start running, even though I had no clue where Brody even was.

Finally, after taking so many turns I’d never find my way back and two separate elevator rides filled with silence, the doctor stopped at a closed door in a long hallway.

“Here we are,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple hours to check on Mr. Correlli. In the meantime, the nurse’s station is right around the corner if you need anything.” With that, he headed off down the hallway.

I followed Bri and her uncle inside the room, twisting my hands nervously in the hem of my shirt. At the first sight of Brody lying on his back, eyes closed, oxygen mask covering his nose and mouth, a fresh wave of tears surged out of me. Silent tears unaccompanied by the violent sobs that had torn through me earlier. Rivers of quiet pain that flowed down my cheeks and dripped onto the floor.

Bri and her uncle moved closer to Brody until they were standing at his right side, staring down at him. And then Bri stepped into her uncle’s side, and he wrapped one massive arm around her as she cried quietly in his embrace. I felt so out of place, like I shouldn’t even be here, like I should give them a moment of privacy, but Brody was right there and I needed—desperately—to be by his side. To hold his hand. To feel the proof that his heart was still beating.

I walked around the end of the bed and dragged a plastic chair to the other side of Brody, my eyes riveted to his chest. It was rising and falling in slow, steady movements, and the relief of that had me sitting down hard. I clasped his hand in mine, careful not to jostle the finger monitor, not to put pressure on the bruises and cuts ridging along his knuckles, and scooted a little closer. And then closer. Close enough so I could rest my head against his thigh, so I could hold his hand with both of mine and gently stroke his skin. So I could look up at him and know the exact moment he opened his eyes. So I could feel him, feel that he was real, feel that he was still here, with me, feel and see and smell and touch.

The ebb and flow of my emotions kept threatening to drag me out and hold me under. A relentless shifting from pure joy that he was alive, that he would be okay, to a god-awful dread mingled with guilt that this was all my fault, that those ethereal gray eyes would be filled with nothing but hate for me once he opened them.

I would spend the rest of my life making this up to him, if he would let me.

I let the rhythmic motion of his chest soothe me as he took deep, even breaths. I heard other chairs scraping, but didn’t turn my head. Heard the hushed conversation between Bri and her uncle. Heard the constant beeping of Brody’s heart monitor.

My eyes fluttered closed, and then popped back open when I realized I couldn’t see him anymore. But a profound exhaustion was sweeping through me, grabbing at me and trying to yank me away. I fought it as hard as I could. As long as I could. And when my eyelids became too heavy, when I was unable to peel them open again, I let sleep drag me under.

20

ISAAC

The dream was a good one. Comforting. Brody was sifting his fingers through my hair as he held me and murmured soft words into my ear. Words of forgiveness. Of praise. Of love. And then those words became beeps, the steady echo of a machine breaking through his velvety voice, too jarring to ignore. The pain came next, as rhythmic as the beeps, until they were in sync and getting louder and louder. Until I couldn’t hear or feel anything other than pain and beeping.

Everything hurt. The pain radiated from my skull, down my spine, to my hips, my thighs, my feet. I heard a moan, felt it in my chest, and realized it came from me.

“Baby,” said a deep, raspy voice.

My eyes flew open, and the skin of Brody’s wrist and forearm were all I could see, his fingers in my hair all I could feel, until he pulled his arm away and laced his fingers with mine near his hip. I looked higher until I found his slitted gray eyes, my heart pounding so hard it hurt, and I whipped my head up.

He was awake. Brody wasawake.

“Brody,” I whispered. My entire body ached from the uncomfortable position I’d fallen asleep in, but it didn’t matter.

Brody smiled at me, and it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. His oxygen mask was gone, lying beside him on the bed, and he looked tired—so damn tired. He had a wicked black eye and some bruising on his cheekbone. But he was smiling at me, and my own pain was forgotten. “Hey, sweetheart,” he croaked.

“Hey,” I said. “H-how are you feeling?” I tried to scoot my chair even closer.

“Not too bad,” he said. “But that’s probably because of the pain meds.”

Guilt started to claw its way to the surface, and I tried to shove it back down. Brody wasn’t looking at me like he hated me. He wasn’t looking at me like he thought this was all my fault. But maybe that was because of the pain meds, too. Maybe once he was back to normal, he would realize that he needed to hate me because I’d almost gotten him killed.

“Brody, I?—”

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, and my heart almost stopped when I saw the moisture in his eyes. His lips wobbled the slightest bit, and I stood up, moving toward him, hovering over him and grasping his face in my hands. His eyes, which never left mine, were quickly filling with tears as he said, “I’m so fucking sorry, Isaac, if I’d known?—”

“Shh,” I said. “What do you have to be sorry for?” I brushed away the first tears that fell and pressed my lips gently to his, just for a moment. I’d never tasted anything sweeter. “I’mthe one who’s sorry, baby, this is all my fault?—”

“No it’snot,” he whispered harshly. “I should have?—”

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