The miracle case.
Recovery from my physical injuries — a concussion, two sprained wrists, severe bruising, and lacerations over twenty percent of my body, many of which needed stitches — took a long time.
Recovery from my emotional injuries — well, we’ll call it a work in progress.
Every morning, I wake in Wyatt’s arms. I watch the sun rise from the gazebo in his yard as I drink a cup of decaf coffee and re-read his book for the hundredth time. The new version, republished with his honest-to-god name on the front, not my tattered old paperback.
Every morning, I ask myself the same question.
Can I survive this pain?
And, every morning, the answer is the same.
I can survive.
I will survive.
Because I am not the sad, broken girl who swooned despite her better judgment for a man who warned her against it. I am not the twisted creature, consumed by self-doubt and delusions of soul mates, who let an incapable man lead her astray. I am not the girl seeking the validation of a woman who refused to relinquish it. I am not the struggling actress, begging for roles I don’t want.
I have been to hell and back, but I am stronger now. Forged by fires of my own making into steel and self-determination. Loved by a man who is made of light and hope and happiness. And, finally, able to love him back with every part of me, even the dark parts I feared, for so many years, to expose to the light.
“Go inside, please.” Wyatt kisses the tip of my nose gently. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I’msupposedto be a lot of things,” I remind him. “In labor, for one.”
“You can’t rush perfection.” He touches my stomach again. “Don’t you know by now, tiny dictators make their own rules?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I grumble, grinning at him despite myself.
It feels strange sometimes, to be so full of life and joy and love, after what happened to Masters. After what happened with Harper.
The grin slides off my face.
I miss my best friend so much, sometimes, it levels me. I’m haunted by the last words I spoke to her.
“He wanted me to tell you that he loved you. He loved you so much, Harper.”
I’m equally haunted by the words she spoke back to me.
“You made him leave early. You did this. You… You killed him.”
Wyatt says she didn’t mean it. That it was the grief, talking.
I try to believe him. Try to tell myself she doesn’t hate me for taking away the man she loved, while I have everything I’ve ever wanted out of life.
…Except, of course, my best friend.
I haven’t seen her in months. Not since she packed up her car and drove home to Iowa. I can’t say I blame her. The heartbreak of being here, without him… it was too much to handle. Still, each time I reach a landmark moment in my life, I automatically look around for her, thinking she should be by my side. Thinking none of it really means anything at all, without her with me.
She may hate me, now, but that doesn’t change anything. I want her back. I want her here. The more that happens in my life, the stronger the feeling gets.
So much has already changed, in the months since she left.
Getting released from the hospital. TheUnchartedpremiere. Wyatt re-publishing his book without the pseudonym. Unofficially moving in with him. And now, as of today…officiallymoving in with him.
Truth be told, I’ve been living here for months. I never went back home, after they discharged me from the hospital. Not really. Wyatt insisted on taking care of me, and I wasn’t in any position to argue with him, with a bruised body and a broken spirit.
My Viking. Strong enough for both of us. Holding me together with his bare hands.