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“Quit thanking me,” I say firmly. “You and I take care of each other. We have ever since that day when you stopped Corbin Holmes from bullying me. It’s what we do.”
Uncomfortable with his gratitude, I turn away to focus on the kitchen. White cabinets line my kitchen, and wide hardwood planks cover the floors. Vibrant blood-red pendant lights hang above a wooden island with black leather bar chairs, their lights reflecting off my sleek black granite countertops. Despite its contrasting colors, the room feels warm and inviting.
His gaze follows as I point out specific cabinets. “Plates, bowls, and glasses are there. Silverware is in that drawer. Snacks are there, coffee stuff is above the coffeepot, and liquor is in that cupboard.” I point past the dining table at the far end of the room. “The patio is through the sliding doors, and the stuff for the grills and firepit is stored inside the benches if you want to sit under the stars with a fire.
“This way,” I direct him out a doorway at the far end of the room, back into the hall. We pause at the door to my repurposed office, and I tap the door lightly with one newly-manicured nail. “This is Tucker’s big surprise. He and Tom – a good friend and your new physical therapist – did this, and it’s ‘important guy stuff’ ” – I form air quotes like Lila had – “so I’ll let him unveil this. He’s very proud of it, so be sure to act impressed.”
Mark trails behind me, balancing on his crutches as I stop again. “Here’s a half bath for the downstairs,” I say, opening the door to expose a small but functional neutral-toned bathroom. “Down this hall is the washer and dryer, and the glass door at the end leads across the breezeway to our clinic. That’s where you’ll be doing physical therapy and getting your massage and hydrotherapy treatments.”
I lead him back to the entry where we started, stopping at the door beside the foyer table and bench. “And this is your room.” I open the door and step aside. Mark enters, looking around. I cross the large room and open the drapes, exposing the magnificent floor-to-ceiling mountain view. The sun is beginning its descent, scattering its first hints of rosy color across the snow-capped peaks.
Mark nods approvingly, taking in the pale neutral walls, the driftwood-gray planked wall at the head of the bed, and the reclaimed wood furniture. “This is really nice, Charlie.”
I tug the pewter-colored sliding barn door aside to reveal the bathroom. “Tom knows a guy who remodels homes for wounded veterans. He modified the bathroom. There’s a shower bench and handrails, and everything is set up so you won’t have to lean over on crutches. Lila found that huge chaise so you can relax and put your leg up, and she stuck another mini fridge under your bedside shelf. It’s already stocked with water, soda, and beer. And I picked you up more clothes. They’re washed and put away. We can go shopping for anything else you want.”
I look at him, noticing for the first time the tightness around his eyes and the tension in his jaw. “You’re hurting, aren’t you? You’ve been up all day. Your leg’s probably swollen. Why don’t you rest for a while? It should be a couple of hours before Lila and Tucker get here.”
Mark studies me for a long moment. “I know you said no more thank you’s, but I owe you so much, Baby Girl. I can’t ever thank you enough for this. For everything.” He smiles. “I'd hug you, but if I fall over, you’ll make me wear that damn non-slip sock again.”
I laugh and step closer, careful not to bump his crutches, wrapping my arms snugly around his waist. He hugs me tightly with his left arm, leaning on his right crutch. “Don’t worry,” I tease, “it’s carpeted in here, so no non-slip sock required.” I stand on tiptoe to kiss his soft stubble and grin. “Unless you fall on your ass.”
He chuckles and kisses my forehead. “I’ll change clothes and then I’m going to check out that chaise. I’ll yell if I need help,” he adds when I open my mouth.
I relent. “Fine. Your clothes are mostly in the top drawers so you don't have to lean over. I’ll close your door, but I’ll have my phone if you need me. Do you need anything for pain?"
He shakes his head. "I'm going to elevate it and see if that helps."
I nod. "Call me if you need me," I reiterate, closing the door.
I start a load of laundry from our suitcase before carrying my toiletries upstairs. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. It’s not flattering. My hair looks good thanks to Lila’s mandated cut and highlights, but my pale face draws attention to the huge shadows beneath my eyes.
All seems quiet downstairs, so I race through a shower, anxious to rid myself of the grimy feeling being around strangers gives me. Afterwards, I dig through my closet and find black leggings and a sweater that matches my eyes. I apply makeup to conceal my exhaustion and add my favorite gold earrings.
Not great, but it’s definitely an improvement.
I listen briefly at Mark’s door, but his room is silent. Hopefully, he’s dozed off. I wander into the living room and flop on the couch, leaning my head back. I close my eyes, empty my mind, and feel my body relax into the cushions.
We’re finally home.
MARK
Charlie’s upstairs. She must be showering, because I hear water running. Lila said she showers multiple times a day. She can’t stand to feel dirty after being held captive in squalid conditions.
I rummage through the dresser drawers and find clothes, changing into a soft black shirt and dark gray sweats that I safety-pin up to accommodate my missing limb. I sink into the plush chaise with a bottle of water and stare at the breathtaking mountain view, seeing none of it.
I’m home.
And I feel more like giving up now than I ever have.
I lie there, my ruined leg propped up, stuffed like a sausage into a compression stocking from my upper thigh to its weirdly rounded tip. Supposedly, the stocking will reshape my residual limb and compress my burns to minimize scarring. Given the multitude of scars on that leg, it’s an exercise in futility. I rub my eyes as they suddenly sting. Despair so intense I can scarcely breathe floods my soul.
I’m a useless goddamn cripple.
I’m such a fucking idiot. I believed the hype they fed me at Brooke, swallowed it hook, line, and sinker. I convinced myself that by pushing harder, working my ass off, and doing everything they said, I could beat the odds. Not grow back a limb, obviously, but be – well, better off than this. This is living in a room in Charlie’s house, dependent on help from others, barely more than a damn invalid. From now on, friends and strangers alike will see me as a cripple first and a man second. That’s all I am now – a cripple. There’s no possible way a woman could ever see me as attractive or masculine or virile again. Hell, I can’t even stand without using crutches. My whole life, I’ve been strong, capable, and confident. Now I’m damaged goods. I can’t hide the fact I’m missing half a limb, like some jacked-up starfish.
I wasn't conceited before the explosion – at least, I don’t think I was – but I knew I was good-looking. Light blue eyes, thick sandy hair with a hint of curl, and tall, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, giving me that enviable V-shape. I was athletic and formidable, a natural leader, an alpha male – all advantageous traits for my military career. I’ve enjoyed my share of women over the years while carefully sidestepping long-term entanglements.
I stare into the burgeoning sunset and snort. What good are blue eyes and broad shoulders when I’m half a man? At thirty-five, I thought I’d still have time to play the field. I figured I’d eventually settle down once I got out of the Army, maybe even have a family someday. Instead I’m missing a leg, covered in scars and wobbly as a newborn foal. I can’t approach a woman like this. I no longer have strength or athleticism to get by on, and I sure as hell can’t rely on my looks with this fucked-up body. The only career I’ve ever known was blown to hell, and leadership skills are useless with no one to lead. I lost everything because of that damn IED.
