Page 59 of Marry Me Tomorrow
“Me too,” I murmur, my voice barely audible.
As they carry me out of the house and into the ambulance, Trent stays by my side, never letting go of my hand.
His thumb traces soothing circles against my palm as we pull away from the house. For the first time since waking, I allow myself to believe that we’ll make it through this.
Together.
The next twenty-four hours pass in a whirlwind of fluorescent lights, sterile smells, and constant monitoring. Nurses flit in and out of my room like hummingbirds, each bringing a new piece of equipment or a clipboard full of questions. The doctors seem to run an endless string of tests—scans, X-rays, and pokes and prods that leave me tender and tired. Apparently, being knocked out and coming within inches of being crushed by a massive tree raises enough concerns to keep an entire medical team occupied.
By some miracle, all my tests come back clear. No internal bleeding. No fractures. Just some bruising and a soreness that will take time to fade, along with a neat row of stitches tracing across my forehead.
When the last doctor leaves, I turn to Trent, who’s slumped awkwardly on the small couch in the corner. His broad frame barely fits, and the dark circles under his eyes tell me he hasn’t slept at all.
“Trent,” I say softly, my voice still raspy from disuse. “You really didn’t have to stay here with me. Have you even left the hospital at all?”
He straightens up, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Well, one would be a very stupid husband to leave his wife,” he says with a faint grin. Then his expression sobers. “But since a giant tree did fall on our house and basically wiped out half the upper floor, I did have to step out for a bit. I’ve been fixing up a place for us to stay once you’re discharged. I couldn’t bring you back home to that mess.”
“And the renters?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time. “Are you absolutely sure they’re going to be okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” he assures me. “You don’t need to worry about all that.”
“Tell me,” I say. “The marina is my home too.”
“You’re right,” Trent says, looking into my eyes with a warmth I haven’t seen before. “The marina is ours.”
I smile up at him. “So?”
“No one was severely hurt, just shaken up. Most renters decided to cut their stay short,” he says, “which is understandable considering the tornado. And honestly, with the cleanup we have ahead, we’ll need to clear out the rest of the renters. At least for this week. Most cabins have some exterior damage—broken windows, some shingles blown off. Those will be a quick fix. A few of the cabins have extensive damage that will take some time to repair. We’ve got a big cleanup project ahead with all the debris the tornado left.”
He exhales, rubbing a hand through his hair as his gaze flickers toward the window. “As for the boats, a few of the smaller ones were overturned or knocked against the docks. One pontoon broke loose and ended up along the shoreline, along with one of the docks, but the pontoon boat is mostly intact. The larger boats held up pretty well, though we’ll need to inspect them all for damage before anyone takes them out again. Some of the other docks have loose boards and missing planks, but nothing we can’t repair.”
His tone softens slightly as his eyes meet mine. “Your art cabin’s fine. A couple of big branches came down near it, but they missed the roof. There were just a few broken windows from the wind, but that’s an easy fix. Honestly, I was worried when I saw how close that one tree came to the back corner, but you got lucky.”
He shifts his weight, his shoulders easing slightly. “Mom and Dad’s place had some debris hit the side, but nothing major. We all dodged a bullet this time. All in all, we got lucky.”
He reaches across the small hospital table to take my hand, his grip warm and reassuring. “I know I did,” he adds, his voice quieter.
I squeeze his hand, trying to will him to believe that I really am okay. “I’m ready to go home as soon as they give me the all clear,” I say, a determined edge creeping into my voice. “I need to see it, Trent. I need to see how close I was to . . .” I swallow hard, pushing back the surge of emotion that threatens to overwhelm me.
Trent’s eyes darken with concern. “You don’t need to see that.”
“Yes, I do,” I insist, my tone firmer now. “I need to see the aftermath. My memory is so vague—it was dark, and everything happened so fast. I need to understand, to process it.”
He hesitates, then nods reluctantly.
Before long, the doctors return with my discharge papers, running through a list of things to watch for, like dizziness, nausea, and shortness of breath, and how to care for the stitches. Trent listens intently, his brow furrowed as he absorbs every word.
When the nurse brings a wheelchair, I say it isn’t necessary but allow her to help me into it. Trent walks beside us, his hand never leaving my shoulder.
At the truck, he surprises me by scooping me up effortlessly and setting me in the passenger seat. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say, half amused, half embarrassed, and a little grateful. “I could’ve climbed in myself.”
“You’re my wife,” he replies simply, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’ll take care of you.”
As he shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side, I catch him muttering something under his breath. “What was that?” I ask, studying him. His face is a flood of emotions—guilt, frustration, something I can’t quite name. “Trent,” I lay my hand on his leg and his face softens. “Tell me.”
He exhales sharply, gripping the steering wheel before meeting my gaze. “You should’ve been with me,” he says finally.
“What do you mean?” I ask, waving my hands between us. “You never left my side.”
