Two days ago, she was released from the hospital under the doctor’s advisement, not hers. That night, she and Brian also celebrated their freedom, away from the hospital, away from debt. Their “insurance” covered everything.
Names are called, one after the other, and the families cheer and they clap, and when my and Laney’s names are called, we slowly make our way up the steps, shake hands with Principal Jenkins. The cheers intensify, all for Laney, now known by the town as The Girl Who Got Shot.
After the ceremony, I help Brian move some bags from his trunk to the minivan. Laney’s moving in with me. At least temporarily. She’s set on life going back to normal, which means Brian going back to work. I’ll be taking her to rehab, check-ups, taking care of her. I called Lucy, asked if we could have the cabin and they use the apartment, just for the summer, to save Lane from climbing the stairs. I also asked if she and Cam could help out with the boys so I can focus on Lane. Of course, she said yes. She’s a Preston.
“I stripped the sheets so we should be safe,” I tell Lane, opening the cabin door for her. “And I filled the pantry, bought everything you like. I got some good recipes online, stuff even I can make. And I brought over all your craft stuff. I figure you can still use your hands so…” I drop her bag by the front door and pat down the couch for her.
“I love you, Lucas,” she says, her smile heard in her words. “And I love that you’ve done all this for me.”
“It’s no problem.”
“But you know what I’d really love?” She leans on her crutches, exhausted.
“Rest. Of course. I’ll get the bed ready.”
She laughs. “Luke.”
“What?” I check over her. No blood everywhere. “What’s wrong?”
“I want you to pick me up, carry me to the bedroom, and I want you to make out with me for, like, five hours straight.”
I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
I run a finger between her bare breasts, around the dressing covering her wound, down to her panties, and back up again. We made out for a total of five minutes before she wanted me to take off my t-shirt, which of course I did. Then she asked me to take off hers, then her bra, then her pants, and then we made out for another minute more before she winced in pain and I told her we should stop. So now she’s lying on the bed, her leg elevated, looking up at me while I smile down at her. “The doctor said we should wait a couple of weeks, make sure everything’s healed before we start sexing again,” she says.
“You asked him about it?”
She shakes her head lazily, worn out from the long, active day. “I think he could tell by the way we were around each other.” Her words are slow, drawn out, and I can tell she’s losing the fight to fake it.
“You should rest, babe. I’ll go start dinner.”
She nods, and less than two minutes later, she’s asleep.
Once I’ve prepped dinner and it’s in the oven, I go back in to check on her. She’s sitting up in bed, and I watch from the doorway as she slowly puts her top back on. “You need any help with that?”
She shakes her head and looks up at me with those eyes, and I’m quick to go to her, to kneel at her feet, because I’m that guy.
“You need to stop doing that, Luke.”
“I’m trying, babe.” Honestly, I am. “But it’s hard for me. You weren’t there—I mean, obviously, you were, but…” I take her hands, look in her eyes. “I came so close to losing you once, to having my greatest fears come true, and I’m sorry that I’m fussing over you like this, and if the roles were reversed, I’d hate it, too. But, Lane, I fucking love you—”
She giggles, cutting me off. “You’re so romantic.” God, I miss her laugh.
I roll my eyes. “Sorry. I fucking love you, babe.”
“Much better.”
“You ready for rehab tomorrow?” I ask.
She quirks an eyebrow. “You ready for your 4:45 run?”
“Why do I have to do that?” I whine. “It’s summer.”
“You ran every day last summer.”
“But that’s because I was on the track team.”
“And you’ll be on the track team at UNC. Did you call them yet? Tell them you’re going?”
The oven timer goes off and I exhale, relieved. “I made a chicken and cheese pasta bake.”
At 4:45 the next morning, Lane’s alarm goes off. Mine doesn’t. She knew I wouldn’t set it, so she set hers instead. Sneaky Lane.
“Have fun!” she shouts, and I roll over to my side and face her.
“You’re mean.”
She smiles. “Old times, baby. I want old times.”
I don’t recall the last time I’d gone this long without running, and it’s not fun. At all. I almost give up halfway through my standard route, but I push on because I know it’s important to Lane. When I get back to the cabin, I shower, make breakfast. I take it to the bedroom on a tray and she sits up, puts on her new glasses. “You’re the best boyfriend ever,” she says, then looks down at the food: juice, yogurt, granola and dry toast. She looks up, nose scrunched.
“You have to eat healthier. No spleen means low immune system.”
She frowns. Those eyes. “But I’ve been eating hospital food for weeks and this is…”
“This is mine.”
“Thank God!”
I get her tray from the kitchen. Coffee, Pop Tarts and a Snickers bar.
She licks her lips, looks up at me. “I swear, as soon as I’m healed, you are totally getting a handy.”
“I can give myself handies, Lane. This,”—I point to her tray of sugar—“totally earned me a blowy.”
“You’re such a dork.”
“Will you at least let me shower with you?”
“You just had a shower.”
“But not with you.”
“Luke…” She drops her Pop Tart on the tray. “I have to shower without the dressing and—”
“And I’ve seen your wounds,” I tell her.
“But not lately and they’re all oozy and gross.”
“Did you miss the part where I told you I love you?”
She sighs. Concedes. I win.
And just FYI, fooling around in a shower is fucking rad.
When we leave for Laney’s rehab, Dad and Lachlan (dressed in a police costume) are waiting outside the cabin. “What are you doing, Lachy?” I ask, holding the door open for Lane to hobble through.
Dad answers for him. “He wants to do a sweep of the property, make sure no baddies have been here.”
“So cute,” Lane says.
I leave the door open for him, tell him to go for it.
Dad says, “Thought we’d swap trucks for a while. Mine’s got the bench seat in case Lane needs to have her leg elevated.”
“So thoughtful,” she says, going over to him. She tries to kiss his cheek, but he’s too tall and Dad laughs, bends at the knees so she can give him what she wants.
“Good luck,” he tells her. To me, he says, “Drive safe. Precious cargo.”
The rehab facility is more like a five-star hotel, and Laney doesn’t stop looking around, touching everything she can reach. Alfie and Roger—the two male doctors in their mid-forties who are assigned to us are also the owners of the place, and they assure us that Laney will be a priority with them. Thank you, Kennedys’ Fuck You money.
The entire appointment is them telling us about Laney’s injuries, going through X-rays and other scans, and then telling us what their plan is. There are two bullets still inside Lane, one near her hip, one in her thigh. They were able to remove the one in her abdomen (goodbye spleen) and the one near her knee, but it’s the aftermath of that last one which will need the most help. The bullet clipped her kneecap, tore through her ACL. “Do we work on it like we would any other ACL injury?” I ask.
“Yes and no,” Alfie says. “It’s going to take a lot longer to rebuild the muscles.”
“Are you familiar with ACL injuries?” Roger asks me.
I tell them, “My buddy tore his last year. He runs long distance so he was out a while.”
“You run track, too?” Alfie asks.
“I used to. In high school.” In another life.
“You joining the team in college?” he asks.
I look over at the X-rays. “So a lot of wading in water initially, getting it used to subtle movement, right?”
“Right,” Roger says. “Do you have access to a pool?”
“We have a lake,” I tell them. “But the wounds are still healing, so I don’t know about lake water. In the meantime, we can use the facilities here?”
“Doctor Lucas Preston,” Laney announces, and the real doctors laugh. Smartass Laney.
In the car on the way home, Laney thanks me for asking all the right questions and knowing what to say. She admits it was all a little overwhelming for her. It was overwhelming for me, too, but while she’s focused on life getting back to normal, I’m just as focused on fixing her.
“Are you looking forward to the tryouts this afternoon, Coach Lucas?” she asks.
“Yeah, it should be good,” I tell her. “You want me to take you home, or you want to come watch?”