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It’san odd sight to see Ruby all decked out from the wedding still, Just Married still coating the back window, cans still hanging from the bumper. As Starla wheels me out of the hospital entrance to my car, which Gabriel has parked right up front, the engine idling, a startled laugh bursts through my lips.
“I insisted the boys leave her decorated,” Starla says, catching the reason for my humor as she follows my gaze. “I thought it only right that you should arrive home in style at least once.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching back to grip her hand as Gabriel approaches us.
“Of course,” she responds warmly, squeezing my hand in response.
“You ready to go home, princess?” Gabe asks, a smile gracing his gorgeous face.
“More than,” I agree, matching his expression with a big grin.
He reaches down as if to scoop me up out of my wheelchair, but I protest.
“Gabriel, you’ll rip your stitches,” I scold, fending him off.
His expression warns me not to argue with him, but I hold my ground.
“Just give me your good arm for support,” I insist. “I can stand on my own.”
He cocks an eyebrow silently but seemingly decides not to argue. “Fine, but I can support you better as you stand.”
Before I can disagree, he guides his good arm beneath my armpit, wrapping it carefully around my upper torso, so his shoulder is carrying the majority of my weight as I rise. My stitches twinge painfully, and a throbbing ache pulses in my stomach where I was stabbed, but I refuse to stop until I’m on my feet.
I stand for a moment, catching my breath from the ridiculous amount of exertion I put in to just stand up.
“You two are a mess,” Starla teases as she watches from behind the wheelchair, holding it steady so it wouldn’t wobble as I stood.
I release a breathy laugh. “No joke.” Between Gabriel and me, we have more holes in us than swiss cheese.
Gabriel helps lower me into the passenger seat of Ruby, and I lift my feet into the car with a bit of effort. He turns to give Starla a hug goodbye. She’ll be heading home to Blackmoor today now that I’ve been discharged. As soon as they say their farewells, Gabriel heads around to the driver’s side, and Starla leans into the car to give me a hug goodbye.
“You’ll call me?” she asks. “I want regular updates.”
“I’ll call you every day,” I promise, squeezing her tight. I don’t know what I would have done without Starla in my life. She’s such a wonderful person, and I feel beyond lucky to have her as my friend.
She closes the door a moment later, and then Gabe and I are off, the tin cans clanking and banging behind us and making me laugh. We ride in silence for several minutes, me appreciating the beauty of the world outside after such a close brush with death. And Gabriel’s fingers slide between mine moments later, intertwining our hands so our palms hug.
It’s such a simple act of love, but it warms my heart. After thinking I might have lost him not long ago, the sense of his flesh, warm and coarse against my own, reassures me, allowing my muscles to relax. And now that we know the violence is over, I find all the tension that had been building inside me slowly dissipating.
When we pull up to our little house with its freshly rebuilt covered porch, I smile. There’s still no replacement porch swing, but Gabriel assured me we would put another one in as soon as we have the money.
Gabriel helps me carefully out of the car, his arm supporting me once again as if it’s no problem, though I know his hurt shoulder must be in pain. We walk slowly up the driveway to our front door, me taking small steps so as not to put too much pressure on my stitches. While the doctor has assured me that the baby is perfectly safe, I have a lingering anxiety that I might tear my stitches and hurt her in some way.
We reach the doorway to the house, and Gabriel unlocks it, swinging the door wide, but when I try to step inside, his hand wraps around my arm, stopping me. I glance up at him, confusion and worry bubbling up as I fear he might have sensed something is wrong. But before I can ask, his arms scoop me up from the ground until I’m cradled against him.
“Gabriel!” I protest loudly. “Your shoulder!”
He chuckles lightly and steps through the doorway. “It’s fine,” he insists. “Besides, I have to carry my bride across the threshold. It’s tradition.” Ever so gently, he sets me back on my feet.
I laugh, turning to him and gripping his face so I can bring him down for a kiss. “You are impossible,” I scold lightly.
“Yes, but you knew that when you agreed to marry me.”
He closes the door and locks it behind us before taking my hand and gently guiding me to our room. Every action he takes is sweet and tender, careful to ensure I’m not overexerting myself in any way. And when we get to the room, he walks me carefully toward the bed.
“Actually, I would really love to take a shower,” I say, feeling the grit in my hair after days in a hospital.
“Of course.”
