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Chapter Twenty-Four
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For two damn weeks, Franzen searched for the gratitude.
Stretched for it so damn hard, his psyche could’ve touched fucking China.
Force-fed himself every one-liner he’d given so many others, for so many years.
It could have been much worse.
You’re lucky to be alive.
Shot could’ve taken your brain along with your eye.
You’ll get used to it. Your mind will compensate. Your body will heal.
Give it time.
Give it time.
Give it time.
Time.
Goddammit.
All he had was fucking time.
Days of it, seeing half the world he once did. Months of it, adjusting to that new reality. Rediscovering how to function. Relearning how to live.
Then the years of it to come…
Of a life without her in it.
But with her in it too.
Fuck.
With nothing but her in it.
Taunting him every time he turned on the TV, internet news, or any other outlet providing half a coherent concept of what was going on in the world. There his wildcat would be, at the center of it all, guiding the world back to normalcy, security, happiness. Hell, she’d already started. As soon as the FBI and CIA Directors received and read the files he uncovered with Lino, Tait, and Kell’s help, “President” Blake LeGrange had been arrested—and Tracy Livia Rhodes, miraculously back from the dead, been named as the next president of the country.
And because of it, had been ordered back to DC within hours after he’d woken up from surgery. She’d had time to kiss him. To whisper that she loved him too. To tell him she wasn’t letting go that easily.
And then she was gone.
A move for the better.
He told himself that as he watched her emergency swearing-in from his hospital bed, his chest swelling from pride and his sinuses burning from fighting back tears.
Told himself again as she proudly marched to the podium to deliver her first speech as the nation’s leader, wearing a new one of those suits she liked bitching about—instantly fantasizing about ripping every thread of the fucker off her body.
Forced himself to remember it, over and over and over again, every time another nurse rushed in to tell him President Rhodes was on the phone—before he invented a new excuse for refusing to take it.
It’s for the better.
The theme was common rote by now, nearly as comforting as the slosh of the waves through the twilight painting the Kaua’i shore in peach and amber hues. Over the horizon, far beyond where Lino, Maki, and Nani tossed a Frisbee in the shallows, the sky was an explosion of orange and purple ribbons. Nearby, on the lanai, Pops sat with his ukulele, picking out a peaceful rendition of What a Wonderful World. Mom hummed along in the kitchen, her voice still bright with my-son’s-not-really-dead joy, finishing final preparations for dinner. In honor of the guys from the battalion, all of whom had found excuses to “come visit” over the last week, she was prepping a soldier’s Sunday dream dinner: slow-roasted pork ribs, honey-fried chicken, beef tri-tip, corn on the cob, homemade bread, and plenty of fresh-picked pineapple from the local groves.
