Page 144 of The Surrender
I laugh. “I had an inkling. God, I thought she was smart.”
“You knew? You had an inkling and didn’t say anything?”
“I was too busy sleeping with Mr. Harrison,” I quip, and Gary laughs lightly.
“Come back, Amelia. The partnership’s yours for the taking.”
I stare at the door into Jude’s room, taking a breath, bracing myself to say something I never dreamed I would. “I’ve got something more important to do, Gary.” My voice is surprisingly strong as I stand, smiling to myself. “So thank you, but no thank you.” I cut the call and push my way back into Jude’s room, finding his brothers both huddled around the bed, crowding him. I know he’ll hate that.
They look up when the door closes, their laughter fading. “I think he needs some rest,” I say, smiling when their eyebrows rise. “You’re a lot.”
They both laugh. “Well, I never thought I’d see the day,” Casey says, coming to me and kissing my cheek. “Thank you. We can stop worrying about him now.”
I let them both at me, accepting it, because Jude’s not being stifled anymore. “Thank you for coming.”
“You should’ve called sooner,” Rhys says. “That’s not to guilt-trip you.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know where I was, what I was doing. And then I didn’t have your numbers.” I eventually had Anouska call Rhys’s club; it was the only way I knew how to get hold of one of them.
“It’s fine.” Rhys hooks an arm around my neck and hauls me into him. “We’re here now. Just call if you need us.”
“Thanks.”
“We’ll be back tomorrow,” Casey says, and they both leave, but not before giving their brother a little bit more fuss and a hug each.
I go to Jude once the door closes behind them, sitting on the edge of the bed. He lifts a hand for me to take. Squeezes a little. His eyes speak to me.
“I love you more,” I say, lowering and kissing his dry lips. He frowns at the bandage on my other hand. “It was infected. The antibiotics are working already. Are you hungry?”
“No.” His voice doesn’t quite sound like his. “I’m ... s ... orry.”
“Stop it.”
“I should . . . have—”
I put my finger over his lips, tilting my head in warning. I can’t even begin to imagine the burden of his secrets. How much pain he’s suffered. No more pain. I look down his body and wince.
“Can you let it go?” I ask. “The anger you have for your father, can you let it go?” Because that’s the root of his hurt. That his dad bailed on life—bailed on his family—because he couldn’t face being anything less than the hero his wife and sons made him. Nick’s inconsequential now. He doesn’t matter. But Jude’s peace with his dead father does matter.
“I started to ... le ... t it go when ...” He squints, swallowing, and it’s painful to watch. “I st ... arted falling for ... you.”
I clench his hand. “Good, because we’re going to be a bit busy in the not-too-distant future. I don’t want you distracted by hate and anger.”
His smile. It lights up my world, and I inch closer, scanning his face. “I’ve got you,” I murmur. “Always.”
He nods, using what little movement he has in his hands to encourage me onto the bed. I gingerly settle beside him, every muscle tense to stop myself leaning on him and hurting him. “Stay ... the ...”—he swallows, flinching—“... night.”
My smile is soft. “I’m staying forever, Jude Fuckboy Harrison.”
Epilogue
The physiotherapy is never-ending. Four times a week with a physiotherapist, an hour at a time, and every other day on his own. Or not on his own. I help. I know he prefers our own private sessions. Today is with the physio, Eric, who’s become a regular around these parts. We’re eight months into Jude’s rehab. He’s still suffering, but he plays it down. He can’t, however, hide his limp. Eric mentioned a few weeks ago that he might not ever lose it. I saw Jude’s face, his annoyance and frustration. But it’s only been two months since he stopped using a walking stick. He must give it time. Time and patience.
I pass through the lobby of Arlington Hall, back from my second walk of the day, a basket of apples hanging from the crook of my arm. Anouska’s assisting a party of golfers, and I weave through the bags of clubs on my way to the kitchens. I place the basket down. “Here you go, Chef. Fresh from the orchard.”
“Thanks, Amelia,” he calls in between beating eggs in a bowl.
I head back towards the lobby, dodging the golf bags again, and enter the Library Bar. I smile at Clinton and pick up the two glasses of nonalcoholic Amelias. “Thank you.” I wrap my lips around one of the straws and suck as I head for the spa.
