Page 53 of Shoot Your Shot

Once we came inside, we put on dry, warm clothes. We didn’t have sex. We didn’t talk much either. We just lay together next to the fire, even though the power never went out. I cradled my head against his side and just … let it be. For once in my life, I let it be.

And he didn’t try to save either of us from the pain. Instead, we basked in it together. Understood that there really were no words to fix this.

My eyes drink in his beauty. The man is a heavily tattooed, walking model campaign. He’s always had this broken look in his eyes that hurts my heart. The kind of pain that can only come from enduring a childhood of hell. Kolt has never been one to talk about the past too much, but from what he has told me and the things I already knew from seeing it firsthand, I’m proud of him for just waking up and getting out of bed each day. Some people would let their past shape their entire lives … not him.

There were times in our marriage when I watched the pain melt away, leaving lightness behind. But then, other times, it overtook all of him.

I think back to the conversation his mother and I had on our graduation night. A conversation I’ve never told Kolt about, but because of the guilt that constantly fills my soul, I know I needto. Between the secret promise I made to his mom and the truth about my diagnosis, all I do is hide things, it seems. And when it comes to his mother, I failed her. And in failing her, I failed him too.

How do I have any right to be mad at him for keeping his doctor’s visit a secret when I, myself, also have so much I need to tell him? He’s not the only one stopping us from having babies, and I need to tell him that too.

It really does feel like every odd is stacked against us.I’m beginning to fear that maybe kids of our own might not be part of our future.

As if he feels my stare, he glances down at me. “Morning,” he says, his voice gruffer than usual as he pulls me closer to his body and glances out the window. “Looks like the storm passed.”

“Mmhmm,” I murmur against his ribs, breathing him in and wishing I could freeze this moment. “I can’t believe we didn’t lose power.” I turn and prop my head up on his stomach and deeply consider kissing his rock-hard abs, but choose not to. “It’s supposed to be warmer today. We should go for a walk on the trail along the lake. Your doctor said walking during the recovery process is super important. And then when we get back, let’s do some of those strengthening exercises.”

“I feel like a run would be better,” he grumbles. “Every ounce of endurance I’ve worked up to is going to be gone after taking so many weeks off from my real training.” I can hear the concern in his voice.

I know he’s worried about the rest of the season, and I think he has every right to be. But right now, he just needs to follow the doctor’s rules.

“Tell you what. Since the doctor said light running was fine, why don’t we run for a bit and then walk for a bit? That way, I won’t die—because we both know I hate running—but you still get to feel like Mr. I Can Run Now.” I grin. “Deal?”

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth turns up the tiniest bit. “Not so sure about Mr. I Can Run Now, babe. We’re going to look like Mr. Stanley.”

I frown for a second, thinking back to the old man who lived on my parents’ street and who ran daily. Well, he didn’t run. He’d jog—sort of. He’d jog at a light pace for, like, eight steps and then walk. All while talking to himself, though no one was quite sure what he was saying.

“Well, yeah. But I don’t plan to talk to myself, so …”

“And hopefully, we don’t look like we shit ourselves, like he did,” he utters. “I’m already feeling like a loser, you know. Don’t need to pile on.”

He tickles my side lightly, and I squeal.

“Don’t be mean to Mr. Stanley! He gave me fifty bucks when I graduated,” I scold him. “He was lonely. And sad. And liked to talk to himself!”

“If he’d stopped going on walking jogs around the neighborhood, looking like he shit his pants, he might not have been so lonely.” He shrugs before he winks. “Also, that’s nice he gave you fifty and all. Seeing as he gave me a hundred.”

My mouth hangs open, and I sit up. “What? Are you serious? That dude has known me my entire life! How did he give you—the kid who’d moved onto our street during our junior year of high school—more money than me?”

“Guess because I used to weed-whack and leaf-blow his driveway,” he says, raising a brow. “Maybe if you had learned how to start either of those little machines, you could have earned yourself a hundo too.”

“Anything with a small gas tank that could potentially blow me up scares me,” I deadpan. “You can keep your hundred bucks.”

His hand hooks around my leg playfully, and he tugs me on top of him so that I’m straddling his waist before hestarts tickling me. “Look at that though. The bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks was favored over the sweet girl who volunteered at the old folks’ home on the weekends. Who would have thought it?”

“You jerk! He probably just thought if you made it big, you’d recall that hundred dollars and send him a bonus.”

Then, I remember, last year, Mr. Stanley’s health was failing fast, and he suddenly got put in this elaborate assisted living place in Florida—a place that is known around the nation to have a huge wait list, yet he got right in within weeks.

When I look down at my husband, it all clicks, and I stop flailing around.

“Stop tickling me!” I bark out.

Finally, he does, and my body stills.

“You got him into that place in Florida, didn’t you?” I think out loud, keeping my voice low, even though I’m not sure why because there’s no one else here. “I’ve never understood how he got in there, especially since he has no family and has always lived a pretty modest life.” My hand settles on his chest, and I feel his heart beating quickly against my palm. “It was you, wasn’t it? You paid for him to be able to move in there.”

His eyes stay on me, his expression growing stoic for a few seconds before he angles his face slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Buttercup,” he muses, taking my hands in his and lacing our fingers together.

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