***
“I should never have let her drive, but she was so excited, and I didn’t… No, they said everything’s fine… Concussion and broken… Don’t tell her yet…”
I’m swimming through fog, a thick soup that keeps dragging me under just when I think I’m finally reaching the surface. I’m not complaining, not when I feel no pain or fear, but every time I hear his voice it makes me fight harder to resurface.
When I finally do I feel achy and groggy, and I open my eyes to see a golden head resting beside my thigh and a strong hand cupped around the fingers of my right hand.
“Greg,” I moan, and he springs to life like a live wire, his sherry-colored eyes bloodshot and panicked before they land on me and freeze, tearing up.
“You’re awake.”
My hand is heavy when I try to lift it and swipe at the moisture rimming his eyes, and I look down to see a vivid white cast surrounding it from above my elbow all the way to my fingers.
“No, no, lie still. It’s broken in two places but—”
“Oh God, the…”
My hands go to my stomach in a frenzy before he stills me with a kiss and a tired smile that shows just how worried he’s been.
“You’re fine. The baby is fine,” he murmurs softly, his eyes glowing fiercely with a joy that steals my breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I answer only after he helps me sit up and cradles my head as I sip at a glass of tepid water. It helps with the rawness in my throat but sets up a queasy swirling that tells me better than anything that the fetus is still in there.
What? I just found out about the baby. I haven’t had a chance to name it yet. Plus, I like “fetus.” It has a certain ring to it that my dorky side can’t resist.
“I was on the way home from the doctor when that…did they get that asshole in the SUV? He pushed me straight into the truck in front of me,” I growl, groaning when my head protests the volume.
My words upset him, ruining the moment, and I wince guiltily when his face loses that glowing joy.
“The police are pulling up the footage. They think one of the highway cameras may have caught the accident,” he says, and I can see just how upset he is when he pulls away and starts pacing.
I kinda think this is how he stays in such great shape, because he hasn’t been to the gym once since we got married. Honestly, I don’t know where he’d find the time.
“I want you to tell me exactly what happened, from the moment you left the doctor’s office. Exactly, Han,” he barks.
I really don’t feel up to a replay of the accident, and I say so, leaning over to get the water cup. All I want to do right now is lie back and hope the jackhammer in my skull stops trying to realign my brain tissue.
“Han, please.”
“Fine. I got onto the highway and Nat — Chris, oh this is so goddamned confusing. Natalia texted me, so I called her, and no, Greg, the phone was on the speakers like you told me, so don’t even start yelling at me,” I warn. “But the whole time I kept seeing this idiot in a dark-colored SUV pushing me. I sped up a little because I was scared he was going to hit me.”
“You should have skipped over.”
“I was going to, when the truck swerved in front of me. I tapped the brake a little to avoid it, and that’s when the SUV sped up.”
“After the truck cut you off?” he asks suspiciously, and I scowl.
Swear to God, if he tries to go back on getting me a car because some bozo can’t drive properly, I’ll scream.
“Yes. After. I couldn’t go anywhere but into oncoming traffic, and the brakes weren’t working right.”
So I’d ended up hitting the truck and flipping the car. Shit, the rental company is not going to be pleased. I can guarantee there’s nothing much left of the little hatchback.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I hit them as hard as I could. I figured him rear-ending me was a whole lot better than hitting a truck, but when I stood on the pedal it hit the floor like a limp noodle.”
I want to state for the record that I’m not telling him how fast I was going when the brakes failed because I’m smart and I actually want a car of my own before my ninety-fifth birthday.
Luckily he’s so fixated on the brake failure I’m saved from lying right to his face. He processes the information with a thoroughness that makes my head pound before nodding and shifting gears.
“How are you feeling?”
“Eh, better than dead. How are you? You look like shit,” I say as he lowers himself to sit beside me and strokes the tips of my fingers on my right hand.
“I’m fine. You, on the other hand, the doctor said the seatbelt saved you. Good girl,” he murmurs, touching my belly gently.