Page 131 of These Secret Years

As deliberately as I can, I step inside, shut the door, and keep my distance.

“Sullivan?”

“It’s over,” he whispers.

“What do you mean it’s over?”

“I mean, I just…I don’t have to go back. It’s over. I’m fine. It’s done.”

“It’s—” I have to take another breath. “What happened to your arm?”

“Um…” He lifts his arms and looks down at the cast like he forgot it was there. “My wrist broke.”

“It broke?”

“It wasn’t severe. I didn’t need surgery. Supposedly, it’s gonna be okay.”

I swallow hard when my vision blurs momentarily. As the kitchen and Sullivan come back into focus, I give myself a second to study the field, find the play.

“The important thing,” he says, “is it’s over.”

“Meaning what?”

“I never have to go back.”

My inhalation is shaky. All my nerves fire, misfire, sizzle. “Good,” I say as calmly as possible.

He manages a very, very weak smile and nods then says softly, “You’re back.”

I don’t know if I’m mentally or physically capable of changing the subject. I understand he doesn’t want to talk about it. That for him “it’s over” solves the problem of his broken wrist and his beat-up face, but all I want to do is get him out of his clothes and examine the rest of him. See the rest of the damage done to this man I love so stupidly I’m positive I would do anything for him even if it meant ruining my own life and body in the process.

Keeping a cool head and steadier thoughts, I reply, “I thought I’d be here sooner, but we just landed.”

“Because of the snow?”

“Yeah.”

I’m openly staring at his face, and I don’t think he likes that, so he turns away. “Want some water or coffee or something?”

“Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“I was gonna make coffee. I just woke up. No one’s here. Harrison and Chelsea both left last night for home. I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Me too,” I tell him.

“Yeah? What time? Do you have a flight, or are you driving? I was gonna drive, but I don’t know. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow, I guess.”

“Does it hurt?” I’m thinking mostly of his arm.

“No, it’s not so bad. They gave me the good drugs. I won’t drive on drugs,” he babbles as he scoops mounds of coffee into a filter. “I only have a couple of those pills left, but ibuprofen helps, too.”

I take a few small, experimental steps closer to him. His eyes dart up to track me, but he doesn’t flinch. I stop where I’m at, the edge of the counter, and he closes the lid on the coffee maker. Taking the pot off the burner, he moves to the sink, closer to where I’m standing, and fills it with ten cups of water before replacing it and pressing the button to brew.

“That game,” he says suddenly, startling me, “Holy shit, I was a mess. Chelsea and I were screaming our faces off. Were your parents there?”

“No. They’ve got grandkids at home for the holidays. They couldn’t make the trip.”

“I was just blown away. I mean—obviously if anyone could have pulled it off, it was you, but seeing it happen in real time, I just felt so lucky.”