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I want him to carry me because I hate the significance of those crutches. But it’s time to suck it up. I waver too long and he curls us up. “Carrying you.”
“No, I need to get used to them. Plus, I’m going to the bathroom.”
His finger moves to my chin and urges my face up. “I don’t care where you’re going. I’ll carry you through Hell if you’ll let me.”
“Be careful what you wish for. I think Hell’s coming soon.”
His eyes fill with sympathy and he hugs me to him. Without a word, he slips off the bed, delicately lifting me.
“Call me when you’re done.”
Humiliation flames on my face when he sets me on the toilet.
“Baby, let it go,” he says kindly.
“Can you roll the chair close? I want to brush my teeth and wash my face again.”
“Call me and I’ll get you in it.”
“I practiced this afternoon with Maya. It should be fine.”
“Okay, call me and I’ll watch to make sure you don’t stumble. You’ve been on some heavy drugs.” He shuts me in.
When I’m done, I use my good foot to hook the wheelchair seat and roll it forward. It makes a dragging noise and there’s a knock on the door.
“Poppy, you ready?”
“Fucking chair and linoleum floors,” I mutter under my breath. “Yes.”
He comes back in, eyes the chair, and shakes his head. “Okay, badass, let’s see.” His arms cross his chest, but I know he’s ready to lunge if I wobble.
Slowly, I balance and swing into the seat, landing with a thud.
“Good job, maybe next time you’ll remember to lock it so it doesn’t roll backward.”
“Smartass.”
He spins me to the sink and peers at me through the mirror, his lips curving upward. “Glad to know your sass is back.”
“Did I lose it?”
“Not to me.”
My eyes go back to my reflection. “I hate this hospital gown. It’s gross, frumpy, and the thought it's been worn by others freaks me out.”
He bends out of the doorway, and his arm disappears, bringing back one of his t-shirts. “We’ll change you.”
“Not allowed.”
“Anyone who says something, I’ll handle it. But my guess is the nurses don’t give a shit tonight.”
It takes less than two seconds for me to untie and whip the scratchy material off, rip the shirt out of his hand, and slip it over my head.
Instantly, some tension leaves my shoulders. His eyes go soft and he kisses the top of my head.
“Evin, you may need to put on a shirt, too.” I admire his naked chest.
“Unnecessary, these nurses have already come in.”
“No wonder they won’t reprimand me for breaking the rules. One look at you would stupefy even Nurse Ratchet.”
He chuckles, leaving me alone.
While I go through my routine the best I can, I notice the bathroom is now filled with both our things. His favorite soap is next to my body wash, his toothbrush in the cup, a shaving kit stuffed on the back shelf. My perfect, beautiful, unshakable husband is here for the long haul, and the urge to cry hits again.
I suck in a few deep breaths and tie my hair back before maneuvering the chair back to the side of the bed. Evin’s arranging the pillows, his back to me, but when he turns, I can’t help the squawk that escapes. My rings are hanging around his neck on a thin chain.
He has me in his arms and back in the bed, this time with me across him and my braced leg propped on the railing. “You tired, or up for talking?”
“Talking.” My voice is raspy as my fingers go to my rings.
“Where is your head, baby?”
“Everywhere. I’m confident in Dr. Rexwell’s team; Dante researched him, too. My leg is screwed up.”
“That’s the shit you spew to your friends.”
I stare deep into his eyes, pouring out the undeniable truth. “I’m petrified more than ever in my life. My career on stage is over, Evin. This team of doctors can reconstruct my tendons, but they will always be compromised. My liability is too great to ever fly in someone’s arms and land again without fear,” I choke out, tears coming hard. “Not one professional dancer with my injuries has come back full force. This is it. My swan song. I went out sooner than I expected and it terrifies me.”
“You need to think positive and have faith in yourself.”
“Heel, calf, knee, the perfect trifecta to kill my career. I’m logical.”
“You could be the exception.”
“Dr. Rexwell’s reluctance to pinpoint a rehab and recovery timeline could mean many things. But I’m taking it as a hint. The Cirque team and family are awesome, but there is nothing they can do. I’ll be demoted and my physical evaluations will be testy. Being demoted means less money—”
“You don’t need to worry about money.”
“Sweetie, I have to worry about money.”
“Not anymore,” he answers gruffly.
