Page 21 of Fatal Vision
“Couch it is.” Colton tossed his key on the hall table and whistled softly. “Love what you’ve done to the place, Shel.”
She followed his gaze to the long wall under the stairs. During their marriage, she’d hung family portraits from one end to the other, highlighting her and Colton’s wedding pictures in the center. It had been her version of a family tree and she’d pointedly left spaces for future little Bells.
Now the center of the wall was bare, only the faintest of outlines visible where the wedding pictures had hung.
She’d had to do it—remove those memories of a smiling, happy couple who had no idea what the coming years would heap on them. Every day when she’d passed by that couple, it had broken her heart all over again. Day after day, she’d died a little, until finally, she’d hit rock bottom, throwing the framed pictures to the floor and smashing the glass in every one of them.
It had been a childish thing to do and she’d felt worse after her temper tantrum. She’d ended up rescuing each of the photos and placing them in an album that now sat in her closet.
“I could use some tea,” she said, hoping to get out from under the judgmental air hanging between them. “Kettle is on the stove.”
He turned without looking at her. “Let’s get you settled first.”
She knew it took a lot for him not to insist on picking her up and carrying her to the couch, but he didn’t, standing nearby as she shuffle-walked at her snail’s pace into the living room.
That couch, though, was too damn far away. The shaking in her legs moved to her arms, her fingers white from gripping the walker so tightly.
Biting her lip and blinking away the tears of frustration stinging her eyes, she looked down at the floor, trying with all her might to will her leg to move.
“Recovery is a bitch, ain’t it?”
For once, his voice wasn’t sarcastic or teasing. It was soft, earnest. She met his eyes and saw the sincerity there.
“I think I may need…”
Help. The word choked her throat. “Dicks.”
His brows shot up. “Sorry?”
God, not again. Where had the word been earlier when she’d needed it? “Not…dicks. I can’t… The word… Gah!”
Raising a finger, he said, “Stay there for one second.”
She obeyed as he grabbed the nearest upholstered chair and slid it across the floor.
“If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain…” He let the rest of the saying hang as he held an open hand over the chair.
Instead of rushing to her rescue, he was allowing her a bit of dignity.
The relief was immediate and as he snugged the chair up against the back of her knees, she released her death grip on the walker and sank into it. “Thank you.”
A solid footstool was in front of the couch and he easily slid that over and helped her prop her feet on top.
“I’ll get that tea,” he said and disappeared.
Always taking care of me. If only she could go back and figure out where she’d gone wrong with him. Where she’d turned left and he’d gone right. Was it one thing or many over time that had worn them down?
Shelby played with her braid. If her memory didn’t return, how would she ever know?
