by S. L. Scott
A sympathetic smile creases the corners of her mouth. “Understandable. If it’s any comfort, her vitals are good, better than expected after surgery.”
“Do you think she’ll wake up soon?”
Her shoulders slump, a long shift seeming to weigh her down. With dark circles under her eyes, she says, “The mind is an amazing thing. It’s protecting her right now. By keeping her asleep, the pain she’d normally feel is blocked.”
“I don’t want her in any pain. Isn’t she being given meds?”
“She has those too, but her brain will keep her asleep until she’s ready. The trauma she experienced and the surgery were intense.” She leans forward and touches a dial on one of the machines next to the bed. “My guess is she’ll wake in the next six to twelve hours, but it could be tomorrow. Even if she’s asleep, her body is busy healing, so the rest is good for her.”
A dark figure looms just outside the doorway. Sara Jane’s chart is removed from the wall and the sound of paper flipping over the top of the clipboard is heard. Rounding the corner, my spine straightens. The doctor puts me at ease immediately. “Our patient is doing well.”
Thank God. My shoulders drop, some of the tension leaving my body. He leans forward and shakes my hand. “I’m Dr. Levy, the doctor on call.”
“Alexander Kingwood,” I reply, tightening my grip just a tad more than he does.
We release hands, and he nods toward the bed. “Everything is looking good—her vitals and her progress in such a short time. Sometimes we see more activity—a spiked heart rate for instance, but she’s resting quite comfortably.”
“That’s a relief. What do I do? What should I expect?” I can’t handle half-truths, not when it comes to my Firefly. “Tell it to me straight, so I can prepare.”
Pressing the tips of his fingers into the right side of his stomach, he says, “Dr. Curtis spoke post-surgery about her wound. To elaborate a little on that, one inch over and it would be a different case altogether. I heard you found her and brought her here.”
“Yes.”
“You saved her life. A guardian angel watching over her. A few more minutes and . . . well,” he says, glancing to the nurse, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Fuck. “I’m grateful we are.”
“So am I,” he says. “There may be numbness around the incision point. There will be some external scarring, but the liver regenerates quite quickly. In fact, it could regenerate in as few as three weeks. Her belly will be sore, but it’s important she is up and moving around from day one but at small increments. No heavy lifting, and only showers for the first two weeks. She may experience nausea and headaches, but apart from that, we expect a full recovery.”
Tucking the chart under his arm, he maneuvers around Sara Jane, checking her wrist with the IV where a little bruising has formed. Then he just stares at her. It’s easy to get lost in her pure beauty. If he only understood her physical beauty paled in comparison to the beauty of her heart. I know how lucky I am that I’m the one she chose to expose that to.
The doctor’s hands grip the bedrail, and I admit I’m surprised to see his knuckles whitening. When his eyes meet mine again, he says, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The comment strikes me as odd and my head jerks back. She’s alive. Why is he apologizing? “But you said she’ll be fine.”
“She will.” He takes a deep breath. “But we never detected a heartbeat, so it was concluded the blunt-force trauma to the abdomen caused it. The bruising prior to surgery supports the conclusion. I’m truly sorry.”
“What?”
As if he didn’t hear me, he adds, “If you’d prefer, a nurse or I can tell her when she wakes up. Her stress levels must be kept to a minimum . . .”
His words go on, floating to me but ignored as the first few bounce around my head trying to find something solid to hold on to just to understand them.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Blunt-force trauma.
“Tell her what?” I ask.
“About the baby. I know this is awful . . .” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he looks my way again, the pain in his eyes cuts through the low light of the room. “She begged us to save the baby when we wheeled her into surgery. I gave her my word we would. I tried, but the baby was already gone.”
Baby.
Baby.
Baby.
“I don’t understand.”
The doctor tilts his head slightly as confusion widens his dark pupils. The nurse at his side replies, “You didn’t know.”
Not a question. A realization.
She comes around and covers my hand with hers. I hadn’t realized I was gripping the bedrail on this side of the bed just as tight as the doctor on the other. The woman between us made everyone want to protect her from the horrors of life, from me and the pain I’ve rained down upon her. This wasn’t about us anymore, or the petty bullshit tiffs with her family. “Sara Jane was pregnant.” The words are murmured sliding into sequence with the beeping heartbeat of the monitor.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, the nurse moving to the other side again.
I hate their eyes on me. I hate their pity. I fucking hate hate hate . . .
Taking Sara Jane’s hand, I stare at the fine features of her face, something I love love love . . . There’s a frailty that’s not the girl I recognize at all, the hospital bed swallowing her small frame. “Can I have a minute?” I ask. I want them to leave. I need them to go.
I don’t wait for a response, and I don’t think they give one. There are no doors in ICU but if there were, I think they would have given us the privacy we need. I lower the bedrail, but am careful when I sit next to her, leaning my elbows on the mattress. Staring at her stomach, I try to imagine what it looks like under the sheet and woven white blanket. I want to see her body. I want to see where my baby once lived.
My chest aches in ways that remind me of seeing her on the ground, beaten. Shot. The bullet—did it strike her and my baby? My stomach muscles tighten and bile rises. The memory of finding her splayed out under a clear blue sky . . .
Even from a distance, I know it’s her. I make a sharp left and jump from my motorcycle, letting it skid to a stop against the hard ground. I’m running to her when Cruise’s car tires grind against the gravel behind me. The seconds that tick by don’t give me enough time to process that Sara Jane, my Firefly, is lying on her side in a dark red lake of blood. My hands dig into my hair. My vision blurs except when I look at Nastas O’Hare. He knows he’s outnumbered and already has his hands up in surrender. What did he expect? He thought he would shoot Chad, Sara Jane, and then what? Not have me react with unfiltered anger? With Jason at my right and Cruise with his gun already aimed on him, I yell, “What the fuck?”
My gun is pulled from the back of my jeans without a second thought. O’Hare isn’t given a chance to beg before I shoot twice. Did he give her a chance to beg? Did he watch her plead for her life? His body slumps with his hands still in the air before falling face first into the dirt.
The gun falls from my hand as I drop to my knees before my sweet angel. “Firefly. Sara Jane. Stay with me.” I scoop her up, her body never feeling smaller. “Stay with me.”
She whispers, “Don’t cry, not over me.”
“Help me, Cruise,” I yell, looking for him. He’s kneeling next to Chad and he shakes his head.
That’s when I know. It’s too late to help him. “Fuck. Help her. Help her.”
My tears are fucking with my vision, blurring. Her body is so fragile like the firefly she was named after. “You’re gonna be okay, baby. I promise you.”
So light.
So pale.
So goddamn breakable.
I get us inside the car, and Jason shuts the door behind me. Our eyes only connect for a second through the glass, but it’s enough to make me wonder why he’s here. Cruise pops into the driver’s seat and takes off, leaving a dust cloud and Jason behind, along with my suspi
cions.
Sara Jane has her hand on my chest, her grip is light, but enough to keep me as close as I can. “You lied.” Her voice is meek, and I hate it. Her breath comes shallow, and there’s a soft gurgle in her throat, causing her to cough.
Angling her up so she doesn’t drown in blood, I can’t stop my tears from falling. Fuck Cruise and what he might think. Fuck O’Hare for doing this to her. Fuck the whole fucking world for trying to wipe away my universe, destroying me from the inside until there’s nothing left. I wrap my arms around her tighter. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“No, you lied . . . first time we ever met.”
“What’d I lie about, baby?”
“You whispered . . . right in my ear. ‘I don’t need anything.’ You lied, Alexander. Because . . . you needed me.”
“I need you now. Stay with me, and I’ll never lie to you again.” I glance to Cruise.
“Alexander?”
“What, baby?” Sara Jane and I teeter that line of destruction, the one that straddles heaven and hell. I wish I could give her heaven. Instead, I gave her hell.
Memories of her lying on my bed cast in the dark, seep to the forefront of my mind. She deserved sunshine, but our lives became dust in the sunlight. Our souls, tortured demons that would soon evaporate. Do we exist beyond existing for each other? I don’t.
She whispers, “Tell me something happy.”
Her dying body lies in my arms and my truest and most selfish act comes flashing right back . . . “I can see the fight in your eyes. The decision to stay or leave wages a war. I won’t hurt you, Sara Jane.”
Why did I stop that day to see her? Why did I pursue the angel I knew I would ruin? I could never give her what she needed, the darkness of my shadow always drowning her. But I went after her anyway, not expecting more than a hi, but hoping for a lifetime with the girl who made me feel my heartbeat for the first time in weeks.
Sara Jane reminded me I was alive, I could live again, and I should. She gave me a reason, a purpose. She gave me everything. Anguish flows through me as I stare in to the indigo eyes I adore, watching them grow darker by the second and her lids growing heavier. The apples of her cheeks have lost their pink, and her slim fingers have loosened, giving up the fight to hold on to me.
My body shakes, my tears fall like rain on a stormy day. I want to give her summer, but all I can muster is the dead of winter. I touch her cheek, wiping away some blood slashed from the rocks, and say, “You gave me a reason to live when all I wanted to do was die.”
There’s strength in her voice when she replies, “Live for me.”
“There is no life without you, Firefly.”
“I love you.”
“I love you.” A tear falls streaking through a drop of her blood. I stroke her cheek, missing the feel of her softness under the hardness of my calloused fingers. She begins to shiver, her chin chattering.
I glance to Cruise and mouth, “Faster.” There’s no way I’m losing her. I can’t. “I love you. I’ll save you. I promise I’ll save you.”
“Let me go, Alexander.” She closes her eyes when all I want is to see them. “I’m tired.”
“Don’t go to sleep. Stay with me. Drive fucking faster, Cruise.”
The tips of her fingers reach for me and as if time slows, she runs them across my chin and along the side of my jaw. A small smile appears before her hand falls back to her body again. “Alexander.” My name is just a breath escaping her lips. “Let me go.”
“I promise I’ll get help. I’m never letting you go, Firefly.”
“I’m already gone.”
5
Alexander
The hour eludes me, and even the day. My minutes lost to Sara Jane, my compass broken, like her. Needing to be closer, to feel more of her warmth, I’ve angled my head against her shoulder, my cheek to her upper arm, and my hand low on her hip under the covers. The nurse came back once to check on her, but stayed to check on me. She’s since left us alone.
The Graysons were here for a while, but my presence unsettles them and they now wait down the hall. Their presence was unsettling to me, too. The hate from her father permeated the air like smog. I didn’t want Sara Jane to wake to the negativity, but I wasn’t going to tell him to go.
I didn’t tell them about the baby. I haven’t processed the loss myself to be able to watch others breakdown. I’m not sure what to do when it comes to them. Is it foolish to want to heal the wounds between us? For Firefly, I would. I’d forget about the comments and the anger her father is determined to take out on me. For her I would leave that behind and start new. I don’t think they can, but I’m willing to make this promise if it will bring her back to me, bring the light back to her eyes.
She’s expected to wake soon, but there are no guarantees or promises of what “soon” encompasses—could be an hour or ten.
As if she feels me willing her back, her fingers twitch and her arm moves, just slightly, but enough to notice. I catch sight of her lips parting and air filling her chest. Leaning over, I place my lips to hers, hoping to capture her escaping breath and breathe her deep within my lungs. When I’m kissed, my eyes squeeze tightly closed in a half-attempt to hold back the tears. Her breath becomes one word on the tip of her tongue. “Alexander.”
My name from her lips is a bandage to my broken soul. I’m careful with her, but I can’t keep from touching her. My fingers slip under the edge of her gown sleeve and I greedily caress her shoulder. “Firefly,” I whisper, my tears soaking the thin cotton.
Lifting up slowly, I hover over her and see the beautiful eyes that have always loved me despite my flaws. I run the back of my hand over her cheek, being gentle. So gentle. If eyes can smile, hers radiate happiness. Surprise takes over her expression, her eyebrows rising. “I’m here.”
My chuckle is light, but it comes like a breath of fresh air. “Yes, you’re here, my love.”
“You saved me.”
“You saved you. I brought you to the hospital. You’re the fighter. You’re the strong one between us.”
She glances beside me. “Water.” Trying to swallow, her hand covers her throat.
I rush to pour a cup and add the straw. Bringing it to her lips, I realize how good it feels to see her—to hear her—a hit to the fix I was craving. But her smile falls as her hands cover her stomach. Flinching in pain, her eyes fill with tears, and she looks to me. Our gazes hold steady—through the pain, through the tears, through the realization that I know. Turning away from me, her body shakes from quiet cries.
The heart rate monitor starts to beep erratically. I stand. Kissing her temple, I whisper, “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you . . .” With my eyes closed, my lips against her delicate skin, I promise her that I’ll make it better. I’ll give her anything she wants. I’ll do anything to make her happy. I’ll do anything to take away her pain.
The nurse rushes in. She glances from Sara Jane to me as she goes straight to a machine next to the larger monitor.
The words rush out as if I need to explain, “She just woke up.”
After pushing a button, she turns to Sara Jane, and asks, “Hello, how are you doing?”
Sara Jane turns her head. Her eyes don’t meet the nurse’s or mine before she closes them, but tears slide down her cheeks and onto the pillow. When she can’t seem to answer, I say, “She knows.”
The nurse reads my gaze as it dips to where Sara Jane holds her middle. Firefly opens her eyes and sets her sight on me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be sorry.” I take her hand in mine and cover it, rubbing my thumb across her lifeline. “You’re here. I’m grateful. Don’t take that from me.”
Coming to her side, the nurse touches her arm. “I’m sorry about the baby. The doctors have said how strong you are, how well you did during surgery.” She carefully takes her hand with the IV and sets it on the bed. “May I check?”
Sara Jane’s eyes haven’t left me. She nods for the nurse to kno
w she can move the covers aside and lift her gown. She whispers again, “I’m sorry.” It’s only seconds, but Sara Jane’s gaze slips through my fears and back into that darkest part of my heart and shines light again. Her apologies feel like forgiveness in the space between us.
Holding her hand, I whisper, “No,” so only she hears.
The nurse says, “Please be careful not to move too much or you’ll feel more pain, and we don’t want the risk of breaking the stitches. It looks good. Bruising and some swelling. That’s to be expected and will go down. Dr. Levy will be in shortly. If you need pain relief, you can press this button. Any pain currently?”
A slight nod replaces the verbal response she’s incapable of giving. She’s a quiet person in general, but the pain she carries now may silence her for some time. I stand. My hold on her hand tightens, and I push her hair away from her face with my other. Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead and then the trail of her tears on each cheek.
When I pull back, her eyes are set on mine, and she says, “Chad?”
Sitting down, I stroke her arm. Too much bad news when she deserves only good. I hesitate, thinking if I should lie for now, but I can’t. She knows already. “He didn’t make it.”
Her tears dry and her gaze lengthens past me into a distance beyond this room. “He tried to help me.”
“I know. He would have done anything for you.”
“Shelly must be . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence but turns back to me. “How am I here?”
“Because you fought to be here.”
“I wasn’t strong enough.”
“Your strength is why you’re here.”
Her expression hardens like her voice when she says, “I meant I wasn’t strong enough to save the baby, but I tried. I tried so hard to save our baby.”
Our baby. Tears sting my eyes, my heart gutted from my chest in just a few words. This is what hell feels like, burning you slowly, steadily, until there’s nothing left but charred remains. Our baby is dead because someone hated me so much they destroyed a part of me, almost taking her down as well.