His head had white gauze wrapped all around it, and he had scratches all over his face, a black eye, and a bloody lip. It looked as if they’d shaved all his hair off, too. All I saw was skin, scars and stitches. There were stitches over his forehead that ran long and deep, extending underneath the bandage around his head. And he looked so pale. Almost as if…
As if he wasn’t alive.
But the machine was beeping steadily. He had a heartbeat. He was alive.
I kept echoing that in my head.
I took a step closer, my own heart squeezing so tight that it hurt to move, let alone breathe. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved restlessly, as if he was having a bad dream or talking in his sleep. They were all scabbed up and dried out, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a drink in days. His left arm was in a cast from the elbow down, and then a sling, too, as if it needed all the support it could get. His legs were covered with a blanket, but I didn’t think he had any casts on underneath.
“Oh my God,” I said, taking another step closer. “Finn.”
Larry cried out and rushed to Finn’s side, and I watched as if I was out of my body. Unable to move or talk or do anything besides stare. I wanted to feel relieved that he was alive, but how could I feel anything resembling relief when he was in a bed—bloody and bruised and hurt?
The arm that wasn’t in a sling rested at his side, but he had his hand fisted tight. As I watched, he loosened the fist, then tightened it again. He was holding something. I leaned closer, squinting. It took me maybe three seconds to recognize it. It was tattered, but I’d know it anywhere. It was the picture he’d taken of me outside his apartment. I hadn’t even known he printed it out.
My gaze flew to his face, but his eyes were still closed. “I’m here, love,” I whispered, even though he probably couldn’t hear me. I stood there, not sure where to touch him…if at all. It didn’t look safe to touch him anywhere. “I’m with you.”
“Is he going to be okay?” Larry asked, his eyes on Finn. “Will he recover?”
“He’s been confused and in pain,” the doctor said. He walked to Finn’s side and checked his vitals. “We’ve been keeping him dosed with morphine, and he’s been pretty out of it because of that, so it’s hard to tell what kind of effects the explosion might have had on his brain. We did an MRI, but we’re still waiting on the results from that. With crude IEDs, you never know.”
Larry covered his mouth. “What got broken?”
“He was lucky,” the doctor said. “It was just his arm. Lots of bruises and stitches all over his body. There will be scarring on his face and his arm. And he got a concussion, as I said. We won’t know the long-term effects until he wakes up. When his arm broke, the fibula came through the skin, so it was touch and go for a while. He lost too much blood before they could get him here, so he’s weak. But he really lucked out.”
I walked toward Finn slowly, my eyes on his cast. That was lucky? How could that be considered lucky?
“The rest of his unit died,” the doctor said, watching me closely. “That’s how he’s lucky.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d said that out loud. I reached Finn’s side, the one without the broken arm, and I slowly closed my fingers over his hand. I made sure not to crumble the picture, even if it was almost unrecognizable already. Even though he didn’t so much as blink or wiggle his fingers, I swear…
I swear he knew I was there, and that was enough for me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I kept seeing it over and over and f**king over again. The bright flashes as the IED went off. The deafening boom where I heard nothing at all, followed by me wishing I still heard nothing at all. The screams. The blood. The dead men…
Then there was my superior’s leg getting blown clear off his f**king body, and then blood spurting everywhere, even in my face and burning my eyes. I swear I could still smell it. Taste it. I’d never forget that hellish night.
I’d tried my best to slow down the bleeding, even as it stopped squirting and just started to trickle slowly, I didn’t let go. Even as his face went lax and cold, losing all traces of life. Everyone around us went into panic mode, shooting at anything that moved. I didn’t let go until they dragged me away kicking and screaming.
And the pain…
God, it wouldn’t f**king leave me alone.
I’d been fully conscious when my arm snapped in half and I flew from the Humvee, and I’d been so sure this was it. That I was a f**king goner. And in a weird, twisted way, I kind of wished I had died. At least then, I wouldn’t be living through an endless replay of the attack in my mind.
I was fairly certain they had me doped up on some strong pain meds, so I didn’t feel the pain. But yet…I did. Maybe I was dying. Or maybe I was already dead.
All I knew was that I was in hell.
I felt someone poking at my head, and a masculine voice talking about brain damage and possible long-term repercussions. I wanted to shove him off me and tell him to leave me the f**k alone so I could die in peace. I wanted to shout at the world, demanding they shut the f**k up. But then…
Ah, then I heard her.
I felt her soft hand touch mine, immediately calming me, and I tried to open my eyes. Tried to see if I was really dead, or if I was alive with Carrie at my side. If Carrie was here, I was alive. It felt unfair, almost. I knew no one else had made it out alive. Only me. I should have died. I really should have f**king died.
“Finn? Can you hear me?” Carrie’s voice asked, the hand on mine tightening. “I love you. I love you so much. You’ve got to wake up for me. Open those blue eyes.”
Either I was alive, or I was right and I was burning in hell, because I swear that was actually Carrie. I tried to open my mouth to ask her if she was real, but only a squeak came out. A small, pathetic sound.
“Oh my God, he’s waking up,” Carrie called out, holding on to me with both hands. Her grip on me hurt. That’s how f**ked up I was, but I didn’t care. “Doctor Sloane, he’s waking up.”
I felt a man’s hands probing me, then heard, “Be prepared for the worst. He might not remember things. Might not remember you two at all.”
The f**k I didn’t remember her. She was my Carrie. I managed to make my fingers move, and she cried out. “Larry, he’s moving.”
My father was here? But where was here?
“Son, I’m here with you.” What I assumed to be Dad’s hand fell on my arm, gentle and yet rough at the same time. He sounded f**king exhausted, and he sniffed loudly. “We’re both here.”