Getting Real (Getting Some #3)(71)

Brayden shudders out a sigh, nodding against me, wiping his eyes. “Okay.”

I wish Connor was here. I have no idea if I just did the right thing or not.

As the boys lay out their pillows and blankets in the living room, I close my eyes and say a prayer. I didn’t grow up particularly religious, but I believe in God. I believe in a God that loves us, accepts us, wants the best for us—the universe is too magnificent, the human body too perfectly intertwined not to have been planned by someone.

So I pray to God now. I beg and I plead . . . to not make a liar out of me.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


Connor


Lakeside Memorial has fifty ICU beds, each in private, small rooms to cut down on the spread of infection. Every patient’s vitals are fed into a central monitoring station that is staffed by critical care doctors and nurses 24/7.

For the first ten hours of Aaron’s stay in the ICU, Stacey and I sit beside his bed.

And we don’t say a word to each other.

We stare at him. We watch the heart monitor, lost in our own thoughts. We talk with the doctor and nurses who regularly come into the room to check his status and administer his meds.

He’s not intubated. He’s breathing on his own but remains unconscious, which isn’t unusual. Fifteen hours post-op he spikes a fever that triggers an arrhythmia—an irregular heartbeat. It’s scary, but also not unusual after the trauma his body has experienced. They bring his temperature down with medication and monitor his heart, but due to the fever, additional visitors aren’t allowed.

With her elbow braced against the arm of the chair and her head resting on her hand, Stacey sleeps for a few hours. I step just outside the room and call Violet to check in with her and the boys. She says she’ll update my parents and brothers about not being allowed visitors and my chest aches with gratitude at having one less thing to worry about.

There’s a gentle urging in Vi’s sweet voice when she tells me to try and sleep, that I won’t be good to anyone if I’m out on my feet.

I promise her I will . . . but it’s not really true.

My brain’s in hyperdrive; I couldn’t close my eyes right now if I tried. I double-time it downstairs to the break room and pour two cups of bad coffee for me and Stacey. My coworkers inquire about Aaron, but they don’t hold me up—they understand my need to get back upstairs.

Stacey’s awake when I walk in the room, tying her hair back in a low bun and wiping under her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says when I hand her the coffee, her voice thick with sleep that wasn’t at all restful.

Forty hours after Aaron was admitted, it’s still just the two of us in the room wearing the same clothes, watching our son take each breath, comforted by the beep of the monitor that lets us know his heart is beating regularly now.

And that’s when Stacey speaks.

“Do you remember the night he was born?”

“Yep.” I brace my elbows on my knees, leaning forward. “Blizzard of the decade.”

“I thought for sure we were going to slide into an embankment, get stuck, and end up having him on the side of the road.”

“So did I.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “I remember wondering if I had anything sharp enough in the truck to cut the umbilical cord.”

Stacey looks over at me, smiling a little.

“You never told me that.”

I shrug. “Didn’t seem worth mentioning after the fact.”

“We should’ve known then that he was going to be the one to turn us gray,” she says. “Give us all the wrinkles.”

“Definitely.” I nod.

And then we fall silent again.

But the memory of those shared moments hovers between us, linking us together, pulling us closer than we’ve been in years.

“I don’t want to fight with you anymore, Stacey.”

My words are gentle, but resolute. Because something has to give.

“It’s bad for the boys . . . it’s bad for us.”

“I know.” She nods tightly, gazing at our son.

“When they brought Aaron in after the accident, he wanted me to tell you that he doesn’t hate you.” My eyes burn, remembering his words. “Not even a little.”

Stacey’s chest hitches and her mouth pinches to contain a sob. She brings the tissue squeezed in her hand to her eyes.

“I know you think I’m a shitty dad, that I was a rotten husband—and I’m sorry for whatever I did to make you believe that. But we have to move on. To have things be . . . peaceful between us. We have to find a way to do that. I want to raise our boys to be good men and I want us to do it together. They need us to do it together.”

Her voice is raw and scraping.

“I don’t think you’re a shitty dad, Connor. And you were never a bad husband.”

After a quiet moment, she scrapes her teeth against her bottom lip, and her words come out soft, like a confession.

“Did you ever think . . . that we got married for all the wrong reasons? Like, we’d been together through college and then we graduated, and it was just expected that we take the next step?”

“Yeah, I have thought that,” I say, my voice soft too. “But I don’t regret it. We have the kids . . . ”