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Today’s the day we move him.
I didn’t plan on bringing Moose, but when I showed up to the hospital in my beat-up sedan, expecting to spend some quality alone time with my man before bringing him to Costa Oscura General Hospital for another night or two of recuperation — and probably an earful or twelve from Rook — Moose was already here, waiting.
“How long have you been here?” I say, on first seeing him. He’s standing beside a rental van with what looks to be all the handicap bells and whistles: a mobility ramp, expansive seating, and even the seats are movable. “And where did you get that?”
“I’ve been here a couple of hours. Got so excited I couldn’t sleep. This van, well, I borrowed it from a close friend of mine who had it for a time while recovering from a skiing accident. We’re very close, though to tell you how close, I’d have to violate a couple of confidentiality agreements. Suffice to say, you don’t want to tangle with the legal team of a former governor.”
“Do you mean…?”
“Terminate that line of questioning, Alexandra,” he says. “Now, let’s get Dixon out of here. I can’t wait to see how that hospital gown looks on him. Can’t wait to see it in a stiff breeze, either.”
Moose's boisterous laughter echoes through the sterile hospital corridors, a stark contrast to the usual hushed tones that linger like ghosts around the linoleum floors. The hospital staff eyes us with equal parts curiosity and caution.
My heart races in anticipation as we approach Dixon's room. I steel myself for the sight of him — bandaged, bruised, but unbroken. Moose senses my sudden silence and gives me a reassuring pat on the back.
"He's strong, just like you," he says with a wink. “You both will come out of this better than ever.”
As we enter Dixon's room, I see him propped up in bed with a tired but triumphant smile. It’s a smile that reaches his deep-set eyes and lights up the room brighter than any fluorescent bulb ever could. The only things I can do are smile and run to him. He grunts as I hug him.
When I loosen my hug, he tightens his grip.
“Don’t you fucking dare let go,” he whispers.
“I missed you,” I say.
It’s been three days. Which doesn’t seem like much, but time runs differently when your days are full of meetings with the police, the FBI, the DEA, with doctor’s appointments, and where even the moments alone feel so monumental, so full, so heavy, that it’s all you can do to breathe. My new life is starting, but my old one still has its claws in me and it’ll be a long time before it fully lets me go. Probably around the time my father is sentenced to prison — which, every agent and officer I’ve talked to about the case, assures me is definitely happening.
“I missed you, too,” Dixon says, loosening the hug so he can kiss me.
“I missed you, also, Smokey,” Moose says. “So much.”
Dixon chuckles, the sound raspy but full of warmth.
"Love you, too, Moose."
Moose grins and winks at Dixon, then nods at the wheelchair beside him.
"Ready for your chariot ride?"
"I've been ready to get out of this place since the moment I got here," Dixon replies with a determined nod, though his body language betrays a hint of weariness. The past few days haven't just been tough on his body; they've taken a toll on his spirit, too. In every phone call we’ve had through the past three days, he’s never failed to remark how he wishes he could be there beside me, my shoulder to lean on while the rest of the world seems intent on pushing me.
But not anymore.
Today, I get my man back.
Today, my family becomes whole.
Together, we help Dixon ease into the wheelchair, mindful of his injuries. Moose only takes a quick peek as Dixon maneuvers himself into the chair, his gown revealing his muscular ass for only a moment. Moose and I lock eyes right after, and we each give an approving nod. No matter what, my man has a great ass.
Once in the chair, Dixon winces slightly but reassures us with a tight-lipped smile that he's fine. As Moose wheels him out of the room, I hang back to grab Dixon's duffel bag filled with personal items that he was allowed to have during his stay.
The fresh air hits us like a wave as we exit the hospital.
The sun is bright, cheerful, and as we approach Moose's borrowed van, I can't help but feel a surge of optimism rise within me.
Moose deftly operates the mobility ramp while I help Dixon settle into the passenger seat.
"Comfortable?" I ask as I fasten his seatbelt.
