Brawler (42 page)

Walking back to me he holds me again, leading me out into the hall. Closing the door, he takes my hand and whispers, “I miss carrying you, Princess. I’m looking real forward to that.”

Taking a deep breath I realize I was too, so I tell him as much. Patiently walking me out to the truck, he lifts me up and takes me out to Coney. I’d like to say we’re talkative and that we bounced right back, but the truth is, we don’t. But this is a good first step. Looking around the diner, no one knows us or of our loss. They have their own lives, their own problems, and to them, we are just two people out to eat.

W
e started small. We started with dinner. We connected through people-watching while holding hands. I decided I could hold her hands forever. She tightened her grip when a young couple came in with a baby in one of those carrier things, but I squeezed her back and she worked her way through it. For a while we watched them with their young. Smiling at it, talking to it, and trying to eat while keeping an eye on it. Those are things I still hope to do someday.

Shit if my biggest problem in life is watching my kid so my wife can eat, I’ll fucking take it. When the kid started to cry both of them kicked in and calmed it down. Glancing at my wife, it was good to see her smiling. We all got different kinds of luck. Right now, even with all the bullshit that’s gone down, loose ends to tie up, and a job I have to get back to, I still feel lucky. She tells me over a plate of chili fries that she’d like to go back to work soon, too. She hasn’t set a date yet, but caring for people is who she is, I get that. Until then, we’ll continue to work things out.

My job of changing her bandages is one I take seriously. Every time I take them off I kiss her belly and throw up a thank-you for her being here with me. When I’m done patching her up she covers herself in lotion, pulls her hair up, puts her glasses on, grabs one of my shirts, and crawls into bed to rest.

Having her next to me, hearing her breathing even out and knowing she’ll be here with me when I wake up is the only reason I’m able to fall asleep. Problem is, I can’t stay asleep. Nightmares grab hold of me every fucking night now. To keep from waking her I creep to the couch, waiting to crash again. The night I found her in the basement will haunt me for the rest of my life. The look on her face when she saw me, then him, then when she keeled over, it’s just too much for me. She’s been trapped and beaten in a basement twice in the months I’ve known her. The thought of her ever walking into a basement again gives me a panic attack.

My biggest fear is her being taken away from me again. That’s it, I’m putting it out there. That’s what keeps me up at night. She suffered while she was gone, no doubt, but knowing my wife was suffering and I couldn’t get to her is a demon that’s going to ride me the rest of my life. Every time she walks out that door she’s at risk. I’m struggling with that, too. Fuck, I’m struggling with all of it.

But I’m also determined to do what needs to be done to give my wife her life back. This ain’t about me. It’s about her. Keeping her safe, no matter the cost. If I gotta spend my nights on the couch so she can rest, I’ll do it.

I’d do anything for her.

M
y recovery went into overdrive the second I made the decision to fight back. I’ve been home for about a month now and a few things have happened. All pretty amazing, and one really fucking wacked development, but let’s start from the beginning.

Venessa and Rogan had cleaned, cooked, and pretty much made my coming home seamless. Boner, the little nugget, still likes to snuggle on my belly. But no lie, Rogan can really cook. Jonas waited on me hand and foot and keeps tally on the fridge of the blow jobs I owe him for his acts of selflessness. A few days ago, he brought me home a candle that we lit and took in the baby’s room, where we had a small vigil for him. Hoping to fill the room with kids someday, we chose to keep the door open at all times because that’s how we decided to keep our hearts.

From time to time, I’ll catch Rogan looking at me, and when I give him a funny look back he just winks. Honest, I think he’s on to me, but doesn’t want to spill to Jonas that he knows what I did. But what do I know?

While the four of us sat here watching cartoons, which you should know Venessa hates but Rogan loves, I was really caught off guard when the women from the basement showed up. Jonas and Rogan didn’t seem surprised, but I was.

Right away, they asked how I was then started telling the group tales of my “bravery.” It made me uncomfortable to hear them explain it with such … excitement. I don’t remember every move I made, but they did. Courtney, the youngest, I asked me if I was a fan of the Matrix because “You Neo’d that shit.”

Looking at Jonas I whispered, “Who’s Neo?” to which he laughed and kissed my cheek. No, seriously, who is that?

When Tara asked me about my research, I was proud to tell her I have given it over to the department in hopes they can continue its development, and I am only a consultant these days. If they can pull it together, it would be a huge success for science and for cancer patients around the world. I’m more than okay with this decision, too. I get to be a part of the process, and for me, that’s enough.

Dawn asked if we would have more children. I was proud to say that in fact, yes, when the time was right we would.

Chelle wanted to know if Jonas had a brother.

All in all, each of these women were amazing. They endured weeks in captivity and still held onto their humanity, and obviously their sense of humor.

The only dark cloud was Jules. This is what’s fucking wacked. She stopped over yesterday to say goodbye, right? She was headed back to DC today, but when she called me this morning she was screaming in the phone, “Macy! I’m calling in a favor. Keep Max the fuck away from —”

And then silence …

Of course, I started to flip the fuck out. I told Jonas, who in turn called Venessa, who had Rogan listening in while she  called Max, who told us to “Mind your own fucking business, I’m getting my wife back.”

See? I told you … fucking wacked.

Jonas said simply, “A man wants his wife, ain’t no one gonna stop him, so the best we can do is watch it play out.”

To which I said, “But what if the wife doesn’t want to play along?”

His answer was “Your friend was Special Forces and is now DEA. Ain’t no cage that can hold her. If she wants out, she’ll get out.”

How can I argue with that? Jules does take badass to whole ̓nother level. So for now, we wait. Poor Max, he has no idea the trouble he’s just borrowed.

M
y wife has been home now for six weeks. Today was her second follow-up appointment and we were told she’s right on target for healing, and outside of lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, she can begin light exercise. She decided we should go out and do some shit, but personally, I want her inside the house where I know she’s safe and there ain’t no trip hazards. That pissed her off because she swears she’s not a klutz, but I disagree. Doc also says for the next few weeks she’ll tire easily, which he wasn’t bullshitting about, because no sooner did she want to argue about leaving, she fell asleep on the couch holding the bear.

I know eventually I have to let her out of the house without me, but today ain’t that day. Last night while we showered together I saw the lashes on her back in full light, and it took her twenty minutes and her tongue in my mouth to calm me down. Had she not taken number three out, I would have. That motherfucker whipped my wife with a goddamn belt. It’s those moments that threaten to consume me. It’s that shit that’s going to take for me time to overcome.

Even her being in one room and me in another is hard for me. I just really never want to be apart from her again. Part of me knows I’m smothering her, but the other part doesn’t give a shit.

“Jonas?”

Flying through the door because I just happened to be waiting outside of it, I took one look at her and stopped dead in my tracks. “The fuck is wrong with your face?” I ask her.

“It’s a mask,” she says, pouting.

“No shit,” I tell her. “I saw that flick once, Princess. This is worse, trust me.”

“Jesus,” she says, closing her eyes. “Were you standing outside the door again?”

“No,” I lie. “I was just passing through.”

“Whatever,” she says, rolling her eyes with white shit all over the lids. “Since you were in the neighborhood, will you change my dressing? I can’t see shit with this mask on.”

Grabbing the medical tape and thin bandage I steer her over to the sink where the light is best. “Good thing you can’t see anything, Princess,” I tell her. “Nothing good could come of it.”

“My face was dehydrated,” she explains while I tape her up. “I needed to feel pretty.”

“How’s that workin’ out for you right now?” When she doesn’t answer me I look up and see her eyes are closed. Shit. My fucking mouth again.

“Even with that shit on your face, you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I tell her. “If you looked like that in public I’d still tell people I knew you.”

“Really?” she asks. “Not that I’m your wife, but that you
know me
?”

“Princess,” I say. “Come on now, you can’t see yourself.”

“You are so lucky I love you, otherwise —”

“Otherwise, what?” I ask her, serious because I worry about her answer.

“Can we finish this discussion after I rinse my face?”

“Thank fuck,” I say. “I don’t like it when I can’t see your face.”

“You’re forgiven,” she says, kissing my cheek.

I was so happy I dug myself out of that hole, I didn’t even rinse my own face off when I left the bathroom. About fifteen minutes later, though, I wished I would have, because that shit dried to my face like cement. I wish my wife could see her like I see her. Sometimes when I look at her it’s like there’s a light that surrounds her, like an oracle. She always tells me she’s not perfect, but I call bullshit on that. Ain’t no other woman as perfect as she is.