Page 57 of Just My Ex

“Quinn, you’re bleeding.”

I glance down at my foot, moving it into view. “It’s not terrible.” I mean, it may or may not be very slowly dripping blood. I can’t be sure. But it’s not hurting too bad. It’s my arm that stings.

“I’m not talking aboutthatwound,” he gripes through gritted teeth.

“Where else am I bleeding?” I kick my other leg and it looks ridiculous, like I’m pretending we’re on a luxurious beach somewhere, a happy couple, shooting the breeze, like I should be dressed in a cute swimsuit cover and straw hat.

This is not that scene.

My arm and shoulder are still aching, so maybe it’s that. I glance over at my arm, the one not pinned under Henry’s.

“Don’t,” he says.

But it’s too late.

I see what he was trying to prevent me from seeing and now I can’t unsee it. How did that happen? How is my shoulder shredded like that?

And by shredded, I do not mean ripped, swole, or otherwise muscular.

I mean shredded like I ran into a razor a few times. And it’s speckled with various stones, mostly tiny ones, but a few larger, jaggedy ones, too. And I can tell this because my Dri-fit shirt has a big gash in it, as well.

And come to think of it, it’s surprising I can even see the state of my shirt or my skin at all considering the blooms of blood on it.

“Ow!” I’m not screaming in pain. It’s more aI am so ticked this happened to me.

“It’s going to be okay, Quinn.” Henry’s voice is gentle. His dark blue eyes search mine a moment before focusing on the terrain ahead of us.

“Was I picked up by the current and towed, dragged and rolled a few yards? Did I black out? I’m pretty sure I would remember something like that!”

“You were only under the water like five seconds, max. You must have scraped your shoulder on the lakebed after you slipped.”

I glance at it again and feel queasy. “But it’s bad.” Nothing about slipping and falling makes sense in this context.

“The lakebed is a beast. There are sharp drop-offs where you least expect them. I don’t even know how many times it’s bloodied me up in one way or another over the years.”

“Henry?”

When he grunts—because seriously, why am I expecting him to speak while he’s carrying me to safety?—I continue with my question. “How are you still alive?”

I swallow with a click. It sounds like the lake injuries he sustained in his youth were nothing more than cuts and scratches, but it begs the question about his years in the Army and his current job.

He is alive. Against the odds, despite being through so much.

He’s carrying me to safety, and I don’t want to be one of those simpering, weak women in old cartoons who proclaim, “My hero!” and their faces are surrounded by shooting hearts.

But, suddenly, I kinda am.

Because he is a hero. And there’s something about him that I still feel a pull to—my own kind of protectiveness over.

“My training. That’s all there is to it. You train for the worst scenarios possible.” His gaze envelops our surroundings. “It’s brutal. But it’s what’s kept me alive. Besides, this? This was nothing. I’m gonna get you inside, and I’m gonna take good care of you. Don’t you worry.” He pauses. “Besides, I’m too stubborn to die, remember?”

We played video games one night, a few weeks before we got married. He’d just gotten home from his first deployment, and we were scrambling to get everything ready. But in the midst of the stress, he insisted we slow down a second. Breathe. Play one of those bust-em-up video games.

He laughed when I called it that. But what he didn’t know was that I was actually pretty good at it, and we were neck-in-neck. “Die, already!” I shouted in frustration, my gaming thumbs sore. “Oh wait. You’re too stubborn to die.”

And that had become our catch phrase those years we were together. It was a handy thing to say. And it was the only thing that kept me going sometimes when he was deployed or away for work, when I worried about his safety.

He’s too stubborn to die.

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