“I don’t want him not to pick up.”
He hadn’t called. He hadn’t wanted to know what that would feel like.
“Have you asked him to come home?”
“He won’t. He won’t come home until it kills him, or he can’t ride anymore.”
Saying it out loud was bad enough. But Beckett remembered wishing.
“Just an injury, Adam. Just enough to bring him home, you know? Whatever it is, I swear I’ll take care of him.”
“Be careful what you…”
Yes, it had been their anniversary. Their seventh. Yes, he’d had a few beers—enough that Adam had to take him home. But living the reality now, days and days going by with Sky in that hospital bed, he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself.
Days and days…and between the surgeries to come and the time in rehab, it could be months before Sky could come home.
Maybe all he’d had to do was ask Skyler to come back to him. Maybe not.
If he’d asked and Sky had refused, Beckett would be saying “I told you so” this morning, not karma.
Be careful what you wish for.
Their eighth anniversary was tomorrow—or, well, it was four in the morning, so it was today, he guessed.
He didn’t know what to wish for today.
He didn’t dare.
6
He thought he was alive because there wasn’t a square of him that didn’t hurt—from the bottom of his feet to the top of this head.
Then again, maybe he was dead, because he saw Beck standing by the window, which wasn’t ever going to happen.
“I don’t mind, you know.” Lord, his voice sounded like he’d been swallowing bees filled with acid.
“What?” Beckett turned around slowly but came right over, picking up a cup from beside his bed. “I didn’t know you were awake. Suck on some ice and try that again.”
The ice shocked his tongue, and he closed his eyes as the sensations tried to wake him up. It was good, so he asked for another spoonful. “Please.”
“More? Doc said you’d be thirsty. Open up.” Beck spooned another shot into his mouth.
Sky wondered what this meant—when you were a ghost and something felt so good? Was it forgiveness?
“What were you saying? You don’t mind…?” He saw Beck look for a place to sit beside him on the bed. It was kind of cute the way Beck grinned and gave up, leaning against the bed rail instead.
“Being dead. It’s okay.” Beck was here and talking to him. It was good. “I don’t mind. You’re beautiful.”
Beck laughed gently. “You’re not dead, Sky. You’re waking up from surgery. I guess you’re on some good painkillers, because when they wear off, I think you’re gonna know for sure you’re alive.”
“I have to be dead. You’re here. I miss you, man. Every day.” He could say it, because Beck wasn’t real. “I talk to you a lot, though. I guess you know that.”
“Because I’m—”
Beck bit dry lips together and looked at him for a long time, eyes searching and brow furrowed.
“You’re not dead, Sky.”