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“Win!”
Any time I start feeling sorry for myself, I just wheel around the recovery ward and see the amazing attitudes of everyone here. Shelly is a paraplegic who suffered nerve damage in a bad car accident. Like me, she’s here to learn to walk, but Shelly is using arm braces, and I’m going to have a bad ass prosthetic. It’s not a measurement of who is worse off, but being down on yourself is frowned upon by everyone—from the patients to the nurses.
And really, having the leg off that had all the cancer and disease in it is a relief. I still feel like I have a foot. If I concentrate hard, I swear I can rotate my darn ankle. The phantom limb pains are no fun. In fact, I can feel the leg aching right now.
I must’ve grimaced because Shelly clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth in sympathy. “Phantom limb pains?”
“I’ve been using the mirror, but my stupid brain isn’t catching on as fast as I’d like.”
She nods her head in understanding. “Saw your sweet new prosthetic in the therapy room.”
“Like that? My parents bought it for me. This company makes custom covers for existing prosthetics. You can change them out, like a case for a phone, depending on what you wear and what types of activities you’re doing.”
“The tattoo must have meaning.”
One of the interchangeable fairings I had made was a tattoo design of a dove with the snout of the dragon just off the edge. It’s a somewhat strange design, but I know what it means and so will Nathan. It’s a surprise.
“It’s a dove. It’s the second part of the story that my husband’s tattoo starts.”
“That’s very cool. When do you think he’ll get back?”
“Soon, I hope, but I don’t know. He’s been gone for a while. Almost eight weeks now.”
“That’s too bad. Is that normal?”
I laugh and tap my left crutch. “I have no idea. This is my first time—our first time. We got married, and he was hauled away during our honeymoon.”
I admit to having a mass of anxiety anticipating Nathan’s return. He left me at my most beautiful, all glamoured up by professionals for my wedding day. When he sees me, it will be with one of my legs gone. And as happy as I try to be, having one leg instead of two isn’t as sexy.
“When he gets back, remind him that moving around is the best medicine for you.” She winks and moves down the hall. At the other end I can see the therapist, Julie—the torturer—-waiting for me. I swing the crutches forward.
“How’s the flesh wound, Jackson?” Maurice Jeffries calls as I pass by his room.
“I’m getting my new prosthesis today, so I feel pretty badass.” Maurice has an AK—above the knee amputation—and according to all the other AKs or hip disarticulations, a BK is akin to getting a sprain.
“Got a surprise in here for you,” Julie says in a singsong voice. It’s the same tone she uses to tell us that one more step after the fifty she’s had us do is good for us. I hate and love her at the same time.
“Can’t wait,” I say with real enthusiasm because getting a well-fitted prosthetic is my first—no pun intended—step toward becoming fully independent.
Inside, though, my new fancy prosthetic is the least interesting thing in the room. My eyes skip over the titanium fittings and the chrome- and flesh-colored covers to the gorgeous man holding them.
“Nathan!” I cry. I curse my lack of mobility. I wait for him to run to me, but he doesn’t. “You’re a sight for these eyes, baby.” He taps my prosthetic against his hand, grinning hugely. “Get over here.”
I plant my two crutches on the floor and motor over to him as fast as I can. The last two steps I fly forward, using my crutches to launch myself into his arms. He catches me and the crutches fall to the floor.
“You’re home. You’re home.” I smash his face between my hands and pepper kisses over every square inch of his precious skin. His hand curls behind my head and stills my frantic movements.
“I’m home,” he says huskily. He greets me with an open-mouthed kiss, devouring me as he promised. His strength is effortless, and it isn’t until this moment that I realize how vast the loneliness is when he is not with me. I return his kiss with fervor that has him moaning into my mouth.
The women I’ve met, some of the SEAL wives and girlfriends who have visited, have told me that reunion sex is the best. I can’t wait. Really, not another minute. I’m taking him here in the therapy room, and I don’t care who sees us. I take fistfuls of his cotton T-shirt and try to rip it over his head, but he laughs against my mouth and sets me down, a few inches too many away from him.
