by Hazel James
He’d said things like burns, skin grafts, and smoke inhalation that made our eyes and mouths go wide until Paige turned to us with a translation.
“He’s going to make it. He’ll be fine.” She’d barely gotten the words out before I’d crushed her in a hug, sobbing with relief into her shoulder. Mr. and Mrs. P were sharing their own tearful embrace, so DH and Kiki walked back into the waiting room to give everyone else the news.
The doctors had moved Clay to the intensive care unit, which came with a set of strict visiting rules—one immediate family member at a time and no more than fifteen minutes per person. I’d resigned myself to knowing I’d have to wait several days before I could see him when the third miracle happened.
Paige extracted herself from my clutches and approached the surgeon for a brief discussion, then turned back to me with a big, fat, watery-eyed grin on her face and said I could go to his room immediately.
I’d lost it all over again.
Somehow I’d managed to choke out, “You guys should go first,” to his parents, but Mrs. P politely shushed me.
“We already decided this before you got here,” she’d said, rubbing my back while Mr. P nodded. “You’re going to be the first person he asks about, so it only makes sense.”
I spent my allotted time with my hand on his chest and my lips pressed to the patch of skin just above his left elbow while he slept. When I visited the next morning, he was awake, and for the next two days, I heard bits and pieces about what happened the night of the fire.
Well, what he remembered anyway.
When his doctors moved him to a regular room today, we got an extra treat—seeing an officer camped outside Marshall’s intensive care room. DH checked with his buddies at the police department and found out they had enough evidence to arrest Marshall for the fire, thanks in part to Clay’s statement and the security cameras outside the building. I know we’ll hear more about it in the coming weeks, but for now they’re holding up their promise to give Clay some peace and quiet while he recovers.
Paige did some digging today, too. Nurses can’t share personal information with another member of the hospital who isn’t involved in their care, so she was mindful of her phrasing. It turns out that if someone hypothetically spilled a flammable liquid on his pants while dousing a building, that person could be burned severely over a large portion of his body.
The firefighters said they found Clay about ten feet away from Marshall. The explosion was in the opposite corner of the gym, making it too far away to have directly affected them, so all we can guess is that Clay tried to crawl to safety.
None of that is important, though. If my Humvee accident taught me anything, it’s not to drive myself crazy trying to reconstruct the details. The only thing that truly matters is that Clay survived. He’ll have some scarring from the third-degree burns on his forearms and legs, but that’s nothing considering how much worse it could have been.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone had a hot date tonight.” Jennifer, our favorite nurse, drops Clay’s chart into the rack outside his room and waggles her eyebrows at me. I’m not that dressed up—just some jeans, a cute floral top, and some flats—but I suppose that’s a far cry from the yoga pants and t-shirts I’ve been wearing.
“I do. I even brought dessert.” I lift my bag of Boston cream pudding cups as proof.
“I just checked Mr. Clay’s vitals, so y’all should have a couple hours to yourself.” She shoots a mischievous grin at me and heads back to the nurses station.
I push his door open and start to move the curtain aside when I notice the lighting is different. “Are those…” I open the curtain the rest of the way and gasp. Clay’s room has been transformed into some sort of tropical paradise, complete with garden lights, paper lanterns, and flowers on his bedside table.
If that wasn’t enough, he’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt over his bandages and sitting in a chair for the first time since he’s been in the hospital.
“What is all this?” I set my bag on his bed and scan the room again, still unable to make sense of what I’m seeing.
“This is plan B.” His lips curve upward as he gestures for me to come closer. “I was supposed to do this Saturday night. Instead, DH and Paige hid the evidence for me and brought it here when you went home to shower this afternoon.”
He lifts his hand, revealing a little black box. It’s still closed, but it doesn’t take a genius to know what’s inside.
Oh. My. God.
“At the risk of being cliché and corny, you really are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. I used to be afraid that settling down would mean I’d have to give up my business because I’d never find someone who loved Battles as much as I did. Then you came along and proved how wrong I was. I could sit here all night listing the things I love about you, but in the interest of visiting hours, I’ll just say you’re one hundred percent perfect for me.”
Tears spill over my cheeks when I laugh. “There’s only ninety-seven percent of me left.” I hold up my stump and gesture to my chest, making Clay chuckle.
“Then you’re ninety-seven percent perfect.” He pauses before he opens the black velvet box. “It’s oddly fitting that we’re doing this here because it represents one of the reasons why I chose this ring.”
He lifts the lid, revealing a pearl that’s nestled within a halo of little white diamonds. It’s hard to say which is more breathtaking—the ring itself or the significance behind it. “Making something good out of the bad,” I say when the lump in my throat eases.
Being on the receiving end of a smile as big as Clay’s is like winning the lottery. “Exactly. And without further ado…” He sets a folded towel on the floor and carefully drops onto his good knee, burns and bandages be damned. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
I nod vigorously until I can get my brain to cooperate with my mouth. As soon as he slides the ring on my finger, he tips his head toward the door and shouts, “She said yes!”
A chorus of muted cheers erupts in the hallway, and then the nurses are back with a bottle of sparkling white grape juice and plastic champagne flutes. As they take turns toasting us, I think back to the reason I ended up in Oklahoma in the first place.
It’s crazy what a little dose of perspective can do.
After the nurses leave, I sit on the arm of Clay’s chair and lift my glass for a toast of our own. “I never thought I’d say this, but here’s to cancer, for giving me far more than it ever took.”
Ten Years Later
Leilani’s hair whips around her face as we cruise down Kamehameha Highway in our rental Jeep. You’ll never hear her complain, though. In her words, tangles are a privilege.
“Eyes on the road, mister.”
“What? I’m just checking out the view.”
“The ocean’s out your window,” she teases, flashing a bright smile.
We started dating the last time we were in Hawaii, but neither of us had any idea what the rest of that year would hold. That’s probably a good thing—telling a brand-new couple that they’d deal with embezzlement, arson, and attempted murder before Halloween would’ve been catastrophic at best.
I spent months in therapy after the fire at Battles.
I’d wanted to kill Marshall that night. I might’ve been successful if not for that explosion. I’d even thought about shuffling down to his hospital room while no one was looking and disconnecting whatever tubes were keeping him alive. My only consolation at that point was knowing he’d be brought to justice.
Except, that never happened.
Three days after I was released, Marshall died from an infection.
An infection.
Fitting, yes, since that basically described him as human being, but not at all what any of us wanted.
Anger became my constant companion because Marshall was dead, but not by my hands. Then shame would take over because what kind of counselor wants to hurt someone? To kill them?
It was springtime before my therapist got me to understand that everything I was feeling—even the fucked-up stuff—was part of the grieving process. I’d lost an employee and someone I thought was one of my best friends. I’d lost seventy-five percent of the building my business called home. I’d almost lost the woman of my dreams.
Any one of those things would’ve been difficult for a person to handle. All of them at once was a recipe for disaster.
But Leilani was there every single day, loving me, supporting me, and calling me out on my shit. It was like being married to my drill sergeant. She even issued me a ninety-day random acts of kindness challenge, and the ornerier I got, the harder she’d made it. During one of my rougher weeks, my words were “paisley,” “vitamin,” and “eyebrow.”
She’d also been right about not having to rebuild Battles by myself, though we had no idea the word “rebuild” would take on the literal definition. The new gym opened the summer after the fire, but Battles 2 kept us plenty busy in the meantime.
Kiki keeps pushing us to open a third location in Norman where she and Alex live. Once they got serious, she traded her Army boots for civilian life and took over the website and marketing for Battles. Her efforts even landed Alex and me on the cover of Men’s Health magazine’s “Fitness in Your Forties” issue two years ago, but I think that was just as much for her and Leilani’s enjoyment as it was for the business.
“Oh my God!” Leilani’s shriek startles me back to the present.
“What happened?”
She holds her phone out toward me while she happy dances in her seat.
I laugh. “Babe, I’m supposed to be watching the road, remember?”
“It’s a girl! She’s eight pounds, three ounces, and has a head full of hair. They haven’t decided on a name yet, but Rebecca and the baby are doing well!”
That was a romance no one saw coming. Jesse and Rebecca have known each other for ten years, but something clicked for them the last time he was at Battles taking headshots of the staff, and that was that. Leilani was ecstatic when she found out. I think Paige’s obsession with happily ever afters has rubbed off on her.
And speaking of, I pull into the parking lot at Sunset Beach. I shoot a quick text to DH letting him know we’re here, then take Leilani’s hand and make the short walk to where our families are waiting.
Courthouse weddings are common among service members because anything can change at a moment’s notice and the government doesn’t give a rat’s ass about fiancées.
The fire at Battles and my subsequent visits to the doctor fell into a similar category, so Leilani and I got married at the courthouse two weeks after I was released from the hospital. Her parents came down and her dad still gave her away, but legalities and efficiency were the most important parts of that day.
We’d planned to have an actual ceremony once Battles 1 was up and running, but by that point, we figured we were just as married as everyone else. Instead, we set our sights on a vow renewal in Hawaii for our tenth anniversary. It ended up turning into an extended family vacation with both sets of parents, Alex and Kiki, along with DH, Paige, Poppy, and Matt, their seven-year-old son.
Naturally, Paige called dibs on the decorations. We made her swear on a stack of her favorite books that she wouldn’t go crazy because… well… it’s Paige. But to our pleasant surprise, she listened.
A path of tiki torches guides us past two rows of white chairs up to a simple wooden altar draped with flowy white fabric and accents of tropical flowers in the corners. Leilani drops my hand long enough to wave at our son, Simon, earning us a gap-tooth grin from the boy who stole our hearts five years ago.
“Dearly beloved,” DH jokes from his position under the altar. “Nah, just kidding. This evening, we’re celebrating the love between Clay and Leilani as they renew the vows they took ten years ago.
“Anyone can get married, but to be able to stand here today and willingly choose each other again is a testament to the strength they share as a couple and the commitment they made to loving one another in good times and bad. But before we get to the vows, Clay has something for Leilani.”
She turns toward me, her lips parted in surprise, then whispers, “What are you doing?”
I glance at Simon and bob my head once. He pops out of his chair with a gift bag in his hand and rushes to the altar, shouting, “I did it! I kept the big secret! Do I still get ice cream when we’re done?”
Everyone laughs, and I give him a high five. “You got it, buddy.” He stands beside me, just like we practiced, and removes the tissue paper so I can retrieve Leilani’s present.
She draws in a quick breath and covers her mouth when she sees the frame with three starfish representing our family.
Mine features a handful of coffee beans that I painted white and strategically glued to make biceps and a six pack. I even added a stack of metal washers to look like weights. Simon turned his into an astronaut, complete with a plastic bubble helmet and a tiny rocket made out of a sharpened pencil stub.
And of course, Leilani’s is the same one I gave her on our last trip to Sunset Beach, with a small addition—long strands of brown yarn for her hair.
Tears roll down her cheeks as her eyes move between me and Simon. “I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect. Thank you both so much.”
She bends down to give our son a hug while I return the frame to the bag. Once he’s settled in his seat, I take her hand in mine and brush my thumb over the tattoo on the inside of her wrist.
“Lei, the first time we were in Hawaii, I told you the story about the boy who saved the starfish. Up until that summer, I was that boy. But then I met you, and that story took on a whole new meaning. I became the starfish, and for the past ten years, every time life has spit me out on the beach, you’ve thrown me back.” Not caring that I’m kissing her before I’m supposed to, I pull her close and lower my lips to hers. “Thank you for always being there to save me.”
Many of the characters in my book are named after fallen service members. Some I chose from a list, and some my husband served with. This is my very small way of honoring their service.
Corporal Jeremy D. Allbaugh, July 5, 2007, Operation Iraqi Freedom
Specialist Eric Burri, June 7, 2005, Operation Iraqi Freedom
Specialist Clay P. Farr, Feb. 26, 2006, Operation Iraqi Freedom
Sergeant Trista L. Moretti, June 25, 2007, Operation Iraqi Freedom
Specialist Brandon J. Prescott, May 4, 2013, Operation Enduring Freedom
Private First Class Willington Rhoads, July 16, 2008, Operation Enduring Freedom
To my readers, without you, I’d just be a lady who talks to the imaginary voices in her head. Thank you for your support, especially considering how long it’s been since I last released a book. I wish I could squeeze each of you.
Bloggers, your time is so valuable, and I appreciate the hours you spent with my characters. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Wellbutrin, you’re the real MVP.
My NUTS! Y’all. What an emotional/incredible/amazing/exhausting year it’s been! Thank you for giving me a place to come for encouragement, support, and laughs. Writing a book takes a village, and that includes each of you.
To my husband, it’s been a hell of a year, but we made it. Here’s to new adventures as civilians and being able to say I still really like you.
Mandy Grifka and Samantha George, I’ll never be able to adequately express my gratitude for your friendship. It’s always sad to see one of our book babies come to an end, but equally exciting to start a new project. I literally couldn’t do this without you!
The Bourne Bitches: Brenna Rattai, Candy Fontz, Desiree Iniguez, Jonelle Espinoza, Lindsay Rodner, and Sarah Wilson, y’all are six of the best therapists out there. I’m looking forward to the day we’re all in the same room at the same time!
Brenna Rattai, thanks for all the music!
Alyson Santos, I’m so blessed to call you a friend. Thank you for your n
otes on Saved and ensuring my jeans don’t make my ass look bad. I’m eternally grateful to the universe for allowing us to cross paths. I can’t wait to see Imagine Dragons with you!
Jennifer Mock, you are nothing short of incredible. Thank you for filling my life with music and love.
Dawn Chiletz and Misty Marcum, thanks for always putting a smile on my face. One of these days, we’re all going to be at the same signing and I can’t freakin wait!!
Stacy Kestwick and RC Boldt, let’s do face masks again SOOOOOON!
Jennifer Van Wyk (that’s wick, not wyke! lol) with JaVa Editing, I appreciate you more than you know. Thank you for your edits and awesome suggestions. #assholeforever
To the gals of DND and FTN, I’m beyond blessed to be surrounded by amazing women. Thank you for the advice, support, and friendship.
Cassie Roop with Pink Ink Designs, thank you for designing another beautiful cover. I bow down to your skills!
Stacey Blake with Champagne Book Designs, I love knowing my baby is in such great hands. Thank you for adding the perfect finishing touches.
Ryn Hughes, Kristine Barakat, and Renee Kubisch, thank you for making one of my dreams come true this year! And to the rest of the SAE 2018 attendees, massive high fives for being part of the magic pill I needed to get back to writing. Reese’s peanut butter cups and Butterfingers for everyone!
Christine Maree, Jared and I are looking forward to our next adventure with you! I’m so grateful for your hospitality and friendship.
Give Me Books, thanks for handling all the details and helping to spread the word about Saved!