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I turn my phone back on and look at Stubbs incredulously. “Twenty-three voicemails?”
He frowns. “Probably. I crammed my fingers in my ears after a while.”
I swipe to my messages. Mark's sent just one brief text. “Please don’t give up on me.”
His simple six-word plea grabs my heart.
I return to his hospital room, bringing a peace-offering BLT. I knock lightly before entering. Mark’s sitting on the bed. His left knee is bent with his leg folded under him; his caged right leg hangs off the far side. He looks exhausted and miserable, dark circles emphasizing the fatigue in his unshaven face.
“Hey, Big Guy. Okay if I come in?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come back,” he says, watching me tentatively.
I breathe a huge inward sigh of relief and close the door behind me, crossing the room to place the food on his bedside table. “It’ll take a lot more than one of your hissy fits to get rid of me. Here, I brought you a BLT.”
He reaches out, lightly catching my fingertips. “Will you sit with me? I need to talk to you. Please?” I study his face, seeing vulnerability in his weary blue eyes, knowing he recognizes the anxiety in mine. I nod, and he pats the bed. “Facing me.”
I sit, watching him draw a ragged breath. “Charlie, I'm so sorry.”
I place my hand gently on his, shocked to feel it trembling. “It’s okay, Mark.”
He shakes his head adamantly. “No, it’s not. None of that was okay. I don’t even know where all that bullshit came from. I didn’t mean any of it. Stubbs made a lot of good points about feeling powerless.” His voice trails off. I wait, watching the turbulence swirling in his eyes. “I’ve been having nightmares,” he says finally. “Vivid ones.”
I’m oddly relieved. I can relate, though it saddens me to think of him reliving his injury. I wouldn’t wish night terrors on anyone. “I get it. You hear the explosion and smell the smoke and feel the pain, and it’s like it’s happening all over again.”
He shakes his head. “My nightmares aren’t about what happened to me. They’re about what happened to you.”
I gape at him, astonished.
“They’re about when I lost you. About finding the vehicles without you. About realizing you’d been taken but having no idea where, not knowing if you were dead or alive. About panicking day after day because every lead came up empty. About praying you weren’t dead, but being terrified of what they were doing to you if you were alive. I dream they still have you, and I know what they’re doing, but I can’t get to you.”
I sit in stunned silence. Mark draws a shaky breath and brushes his hand across my cheek, his eyes locking with mine. “Charlie, I swear on my life, I would go through every bit of this –” he gestures to his damaged leg – “the pain, the leg, all of it, a thousand times, to never go through losing you again. I’d do it in a heartbeat to keep you safe. And then I attack you this morning, for no goddamn reason?” He closes his eyes and tightens his jaw. “It’s like I’m pushing you away so it won’t hurt as much if I lose you again.”
“I won’t give up on you, Mark,” I vow. “You won’t lose me.”
“What I said about you fighting harder – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I’ve never discussed what happened with anyone but my psychiatrist. Anything Mark knows is from what he saw or pieced together.
He keeps speaking. “Lila told me what they did to her and what she knew of your experience. I know you fought back. I know it cost you dearly. And I know you haven’t been with anyone.” He draws a deep breath, and his words tumble out. “I’d been watching for you for hours. I had a rough night, and I needed you. You were later than usual, and with my nightmares and my fucked-up judgment, it sent me down a dark path. I got scared. I thought something had happened to you. When you got here and you were fine, I just – I lost my shit. The things I said… what I called you before you left…” Mark looks away, his expression tortured. “Baby Girl, I’m so sorry,” he says hoarsely, his voice breaking.
Stupid cunt whore.
I drop my gaze and examine my fingers.
Those goddamn bastards branded me. Branded me, like a cow, with that phrase – stupid cunt whore. Their red-hot metal permanently seared the deceptively beautiful Arabic script into my flesh.
Stupid. Cunt. Whore.
I swallow hard against the massive lump tightening my throat. He cups my face gently in shaky hands, tilting it so I’m looking him in the eye. “Baby Girl, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, his voice barely a whisper. “Please, please forgive me.”
Mark’s haunted expression combined with his palpable anguish and guilt rips me apart. He lashed out this morning because his own pain and fear were unbearable. Pain causes pain. Hurt causes hurt.
Did he hurt me? Yes.
But there’s more to his eruption than a simple temper tantrum. The head injury has affected his personality – hopefully, only until his bruised brain heals. He’s suffered an incredibly harrowing loss. His health, his career, his home, his men. He’s hurting, scared, grieving, and angry. I was simply a convenient target when the dam burst.
I believe him when he says he’s sorry. I can feel his guilt.
