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Speak of the devil: Aside from the texts from Robin that I've been too fucking chicken shit (as Abu enjoyed pointing out) to even open today, there's a new one from Terra. The preview of her message says Zephyr's going to set R up with Raine. I don't open the text so if there's more, I don't see it.
Over my dead, fucking body is Raine Hart ever going to get a chance at my woman.
I'm still seething at the thought when I turn the truck into the gravel drive and pull in behind Robin's little cross-over hatchback.
The dome light is on in her car when I walk up to it, like the door hasn't been closed too long ago and the locks aren't engaged-- no one worries about people breaking into our cars up on the Ridge, but bears are another story. You keep your car locked up here.
As I approach her vehicle, I see a box on the backseat. It's full of girl stuff, hair dryer, makeup case, shampoo. It takes a minute to register as the dome light times out, but then I'm heading into the house as fast as the damn cane lets me.
Except for the living room light when I first walk in, the lower level is dark and obviously empty. I find her upstairs, standing by the foot of our bed looking around at the room we've shared for only a few weeks as if she's committing it to memory.
"You won't get to dance at your own wedding, Angel."
It's not like I was quiet about coming up the stairs, so when she jumps at the sound of my voice, I realize just how lost in her thoughts she must be.
"I won't be able to carry you over the threshold."
Damn. My voice is rough.
"I can't help you chase kids around the yard."
Robin's shoulders tense with each one of my statements before she finally turns around slowly to face me.
Her eyes are red and her face is swollen from tears that have already dried.
My breath hitches as my chest constricts at the sight. It's only the cool look in those hazel eyes that keeps me from closing the distance between us to take her in my arms.
"I'm not going to be able to dance with you, Angel."
Saying it out loud feels like shoving a knife into my own gut.
8
ROBIN
As much as I know it bothers him, I've seen tears in Mesa's eyes before. I saw tears in his eyes when he was barely conscious as they loaded him into the chopper. There were tears in his eyes when he woke up from the first surgery in agony from the broken bones and the burns-- before they got the pain medication dosages dialed in. There were tears in his eyes when he started rehab-- when the pain and frustration of not being able to hold his own weight on his leg sent him into a rage of frustration.
And now.
He's standing in the bedroom doorway, blocking my exit so all that's left for me to do is turn around and face him. Looks like we're having this conversation tonight, after all.
His words don't make any sense. Talking about dancing and chasing babies seems irrelevant. But when I see his dark eyes glistening with wetness, it hits me: what he's really talking about. What he's really afraid of.
"Mesa, we pulled a burning tree off of you. Your vital signs kept dropping during the flight to Seattle. You were in surgery for seven hours before I even knew how bad you were really hurt.
"They pinned your leg back together with metal brackets and screws." My voice is rising, taking on a hysterical tone but I can't stop talking even when I'm practically screaming at him.
"The muscle damage was so extensive that we didn't even know if you would be able to walk again! You think I give a single fuck about whether or not you can dance with me? I'm just so fucking glad you're alive, Mesa."
Whatever energy I had left leaves with my outburst and I sag back onto the foot of the mattress.
After the worst was over, when Mesa transferred to the rehab center, I did a few sessions with a therapist on the recommendation of the social worker assigned to Mesa's case.
She'd been worried that I might be prone to PTSD if I didn't get the appropriate treatment early on, making it clear that it wasn't just Mesa who was going to need time for healing.
It helped a lot, but now I realize this is the first time I've ever said these things to Mesa. I've been so busy being his cheerleader and his caretaker and his support; I never wanted him to know how fucking scared I was for those first few weeks.
I don't even know if he ever understood just how uncertain his doctors were about what to expect of his recovery.
