Page 37 of Breaking Storm

“But—”

“Teagan. It’s Joey’s life. His story. I only told you this bit to give you a little perspective regarding him. There’s more to Joey than the thug you assume he is.”

His comment stabs at my conscience. I bite my lower lip and shut up. He’s right. That’s what I’ve thought of Joey. This new information softens my resolve to flee—to fight Joey and this marriage. It wasn’t his idea or fault to marry. He’s suffered at the hands of his father, as did I, but not to this extent. My father placated me by allowing me to go to college, only until he found a use for me in his empire. James has used his hands to manipulate and dictate Joey’s life.

I send a prayer up, pleading for Joey’s survival, promising that if he does, I’ll do whatever it takes to understand my husband. The idea of Joey dying has me catching my breath.

At some point, I fall asleep, and I’m awakened by Sean saying, “He’s out of surgery.”

The doctor tells us the surgery went well, but while he’s talking to us, he’s called back into the room. There are complications, and Sean and I remain standing, holding hands, scared as hell.

Another two hours pass before Dr. Rossman allows us into his private room. The complications had to do with a blood clot in his leg. Monitors beep. IVs are hooked up to his arm. Joey’s face is swollen and black and blue. Every part of his exposed skin looks as if he’s hemorrhaging underneath. His splinted left leg is elevated, and his right arm is in a sling. Joey is a force to be reckoned with, but the sight of him now, damaged and vulnerable, shreds deep. A riptide of anger pushes forward, and I dig my nails into my palms. James should not get away with what he did. Something must be done.

Dr. Rossman suggests we go home, but Sean demands we stay, and the doctor brings us blankets. Joey sleeps for two days. In those two days, Sean and I fall into a melancholy of self-reflection. We burrow in our thoughts, only giving each other priority when it’s time to eat. Sometimes it’s the hospital cafeteria, and others, we slink into the closest diner for comfort food.

When Joey wakes, we let him know we’ll be heading to the house and will be back soon. At the house, there’s a guy in the backyard and one in front, guarding it. Joey’s blood cakes the cement porch. The memory of seeing him there triggers a bout of grief.

Fisting my shirt, staring down at the blood, my hushed voice mentions, “The porch needs cleaning.”

Sean flings his arm over my shoulder and says, “I’ll have someone take care of it.”

He guides me into the eerily quiet house. I grab anything I can think of, books, the blanket, some of his toiletries, while Sean collects underwear, sweats, and socks.

Back at the hospital, Joey is sleeping, and we find our original chairs replaced by large, cushioned ones with footrests. I guess Dr. Rossman has a soft heart for Joey’s situation and our need to be near him.

Sean excuses himself to make a phone call. I’m standing by Joey’s bed, looking over his chiseled body lying dormant from trauma. The elevated leg is exposed, so I reach to toss his blanket over it when his fingers move against my palm. On instinct, I turn to find his one eye half-opened.

I take his hand and rub his forearm using my other, as I whisper, “Hey, Joey. Can I get you anything?”

His voice is harsh to hear when he says, “Water.”

Like before, I lift his head slightly, placing the straw to his mouth. “I know you’re thirsty but try not to drink too fast so you don’t get sick.”

He follows my advice, coughing a bit, and I lower his head onto the pillow. His eyes wander the room, taking in the equipment, chairs, and coming back to me.

Joey has a rough voice. “Where’s Sean?”

“He stepped outside to make a phone call.” I pause a second and add, “Do you want me to get the nurse?” His head moves from side to side. I pat his arm and say, “Okay, you sleep.”

I step away, but he takes my hand. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Instead of the chair, I sit on the bed and bring his hand to my mouth, placing a kiss on his knuckles. His eye drifts closed, and he’s asleep.

JOEY HAS BEEN IN THE hospital for a week and a half. Most of the time, he sleeps, which Dr. Rossman says is a great thing. His body needs it from all the trauma he’s experienced. Since Joey hasn’t wanted me to leave and the doctor said it’s fine, I have been part of the healing process by being present. When he wakes, I’m here to comfort him, bring him water, or press a cool cloth to his face. Otherwise, I let the nurses do their jobs, and leave to give him privacy. His bruised hand often finds mine, and sometimes we sit together in silence. I’ve tried reading to him, but he falls asleep within the first paragraph.

Sean has been making sure the house is in order, no one has entered, and he’s been in constant contact with Frankie. Their discussions are as if they’re talking code. I’m oblivious to the content. Sean assures me things will change. When I ask what he means by change, he tells me not to worry about any of it. He’s become such a close friend that I trust him.

I open the blinds in Joey’s room and stare out at the bustling of people this early on a sunny morning.

Joey stirs behind me, and his gruff voice says, “Tea.” This has me turning toward him. “I want to go home.”

At his side, rubbing his arm I respond, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Joey. There’s still so much healing to do. Your left leg is in a splint, you have the catheter, and your eyebrow has stitches and is bandaged up, which needs changing.”

His head lifts. “I don’t care. I want my bed. There’s no more danger of me dying and I can heal at home.”

I bite my lip, thinking about his home care. He’ll need someone to wash him, help him to the bathroom, give him his medications, and change the dressing on his leg where they removed the clot. As much as I’d love to sleep in a regular bed, I’m anxious regarding some of the home care, like washing him and taking him to the bathroom.

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