Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(181)

As if Erin didn’t already have enough reasons to leave me.





VISITING HOURS ENDED at nine, which meant it was closer to eleven when our parents finally left. It was hard to stay awake; the pain meds they pumped into me made sleep so very desirable.

Erin was at least able to get out of bed and use the bathroom. I was bedridden and pissing in a f*cking plastic bottle.

“Here, let me help,” Erin said, shuffling across the floor to take my latest piss away.

“Guess the honeymoon is over,” I muttered.

She rolled her eyes at me and held the clear plastic up toward the light. Even as a patient she was in doctor mode, f*cking monitoring my fluids.

I heard the toilet flush and running water in the sink.

Erin set the emptied bottle on the small table next to my bed. “You need anything, babe?”

I snagged her free wrist. “Yeah. You.”

Her head tilted and she smiled, finding a space on the edge of my bed to sit.

I nodded at her wrapped arm. “What happened?”

She sighed. “It was a through and through, but it nicked my subclavian artery.”

I pulled her good hand to my mouth, needing to worship the fact that she was alive. Memories painted with red pain forced their way past my weak hold, pressing onto my heart with the weight of a million regrets. My eyes turned watery; the sob I fought to restrain too powerful to be contained. Just the mere thought of what could have happened was too much to bear. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Oh, baby. Shh,” Erin whispered. She rested her uninjured side onto my chest, leaning up to give me a kiss. “I’m here, Adam. Shh.”

I didn’t care if she saw me as weak. I was already crying like a baby. She wiped my face and kissed me again. I wrapped my fingers into her hair, holding on for dear life. “I’m so sorry, baby. So sorry.”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

I sniffed, feeling utterly helpless and desperate. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me over this. I swear. I promise. I love you so much, Erin. So much.”

“I love you too. Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

“I didn’t… I swear I didn’t know she was—”

Her fingers drifted over my lips. “Please stop blaming yourself. This wasn’t your fault.”

I wished I could believe that.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

It was almost a relief to see the absolution in her piercing gaze. My hands were shaking.

“It wasn’t your fault. That girl was sick. Understand? She was sick, Adam.”

Yeah, but that, too, was my doing.

“I promised you I’d never hurt you and—”

“Stop,” she said sternly. “I love you. You, Adam. We’ve been through so much together. So much. But we’re still standing.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

She gave me a weak nudge. “You know what I mean.”

Erin smiled that smile—the one laced with so much love I wasn’t sure I deserved.

My mind wandered, picturing exactly what our daughter’s smile might look like. It was so damn adorable. She tilted her head and gazed at me, conveying a thousand messages without saying a word.

I imagined our daughter would do that too, just like that… one day.

God, I love you.

I took her hand in mine. “Marry me.”

Her breath hitched ever so slightly.

“Okay,” she whispered.

I had to be sure. “Yes?”

Erin nodded, gracing me with a smile I knew I’d never be without.

“Yes,” she said.

I gently tugged her to me, sealing my question with the amazing feel of her answering lips on mine.

Mine.

I vowed to love her for the rest of my life.





DECISIONS.

So many thoughts clouded my head; it was difficult to find focus through the clutter.

Decisions.

I stared at the television screen bolted to the wall, pondering the notion that our lives are built around an infinite amount of decisions, moment by moment, day by day.

Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.

They are born from an equally infinite amount of questions, aren’t they? Those invisible forks in the road that present themselves every twelve seconds and force us to come to a conclusion of some sort.

Should I?

Shouldn’t I?

Will it hurt me?

Will it taste good?

Will a f*cking I.E.D. be hiding under rocks strategically placed where they hit the Humvee and blow my f*cking legs off, forcing me into this state of pointlessness?

As Tyler had said in physical therapy this morning, “Crying ain’t going to make things grow back.” I hated that he had seen me so weak. He’d pushed me too far. I wasn’t ready for it.

The memorial card on my bedside table was a harsh reminder of the pointlessness. A two-by-three inch shot of Luke in his dress uniform. The American flag waved across the card’s surface, bleeding red and blue into the white background. His birth date in bold font followed by the date of his death.

Fucking waste. He should be alive.

Some decisions are just out of our control. They happen and we are f*cking powerless to do anything about it.