CHAPTER 95

west

W hen Mrs. Myles had shown up with Mickey, she all but dragged my ass out of that waiting room. She saved me from drowning in the overstimulation of everything and everyone. I was hanging on by a thread and grateful when his agent pushed for us to have a private waiting area.

And when Jackson was finally out of the OR and put in the ICU, Mrs. Myles made sure I was the first one in there to see him. Because I mattered more to Jackson than anyone else there. I almost broke down right fucking there when she said it—the emotions and everything getting to me.

I thought waiting to find out if he was okay was the worst it’d get, but I was fucking wrong. Seeing Jackson was.

He had fractured ribs and broken ribs, a punctured lung, a broken skull, a broken nose, a dislocated shoulder, several broken fingers, his left hip had been shattered, his left femur had broken in four places, his left knee cap had been shattered, and his left shin was broken in two places. He was bandages and wires, bruises and cuts everywhere .

The doctors had done everything they could to stabilize him and wait until he woke up— if he woke up —to move forward with an orthopedic specialist. His agent had already tracked down the best one in the country to take care of him. And above all, there was a good chance he’d never walk again.

Days passed in a blurry haze of alcohol and stress. Or maybe stress and alcohol. I couldn’t tell. I was a fucking mess. We were stuck in an infinite cycle of waiting for Jackson to wake up. Whenever Mrs. Myles spent time in his room, I disappeared to drink. It was the only way I could cope with being trapped in the hospital and with knowing there was a chance Jackson might never wake up.

Sometimes I dropped in and out of a fitful nap as I waited by Jackson’s bedside for something—anything—to happen. Every fucking beep of his machines chipped away at me, breaking down my sanity until I couldn’t think straight. A never-ending headache throbbed in my temple. Nothing touched the pain. I was fucking stuck with it.

I was drowning with no hope of finding shore.

On the fourth day, fingers brushed through my hair as I rested my forehead on the bed. My head snapped up as I blinked through the bleariness.

He was awake.

The instant flood of relief knocked the wind out of me. I took his hand in mine, brushing his knuckles across my lips as gently as possible.

“Marry me,” Jackson rasped. The world came to a screeching halt around us.

What the fuck did he just say?

“What…”

“Marry me,” he repeated, his voice a gruff mess.

He couldn’t mean that. I searched his face for some kind of doubt—some kind of indication that he wasn’t serious.

And as I stared at him, some version of a future together played in my head—one full of panic attacks, relapses, flashbacks, and all the demons I didn’t know how to fucking conquer. I could see the hopeful look in those blue eyes, but I couldn’t meet his expectations. I wasn’t the man he thought I was.

Fuck, I wanted to be, but I wasn’t .

“I can’t,” I whispered. The flash of pain on his face fucking broke me, and I swallowed back the visceral desire to just say yes and give him whatever the hell he wanted. I couldn’t. Not like this.

His fingers pressed against my lips before I could say more, effectively ending the conversation, and I watched as his eyes drifted shut all over again.

Marry me.

Marry me.

Marry me.

The words played on repeat in my head as I numbly wandered the halls alone. Each word was a stab to the heart.

I wanted to say yes to him. Why? I didn’t have a fucking clue. I didn’t have anything to offer him. Anything good to bring to the relationship. My demons were too much. How many times did I have to hurt him before I realized that Jackson was better off without me?

I sank down in a chair, my knees giving out. And as I sat there, I struggled to get out my wallet. Tucked away in the back was the same picture I’d kept in there for seventeen years. It was old and worn, thoroughly aged by time.

That picture I’d taken with me the night I ran away had become a lifeline—a reminder of better times. A reminder of a world where maybe Jackson and I had a future.

I didn’t recognize the kid in the picture. Deep down I knew it was me, but I was so far removed from that kid that he could’ve been a stranger. But that big smile he wore as he slung an arm around Jackson’s shoulders? I wanted to feel that kind of happiness again.

I wanted that carefree feeling. I was so fucking exhausted. The weight of everything was too much, and I didn’t know what the fuck I was supposed to do.

Had it always been this heavy?

A sob ripped through me, bursting through every attempt I had to hold it back. I pinched the bridge of my nose as I broke down—ugly and uncontrolled .

I didn’t want this life anymore.

“May I sit down?” A woman’s voice barely cut through the haze I battled. She didn’t wait for an answer as she eased into the chair next to me.

Fuck. I wiped my cheeks and tried to get rid of the tears, but they just kept coming.

“I’m Dr. Hawthorne,” she said. “I’m the head psychiatrist at the hospital.”

I made some kind of sound. It was about all I had in me to give her. I couldn’t hold a fucking conversation if I tried.

“Would you like to come to my office and talk?” she asked softly.

For the first time in my life, I considered that question. I stood at a crossroads with my life. One path was full of my demons and darkness—all the bad things I couldn’t conquer alone. The other path led to a life with Jackson. A life where all my bad shit didn’t follow us around and ruin everything. Where I could smile and feel happiness again. A life I wanted so fucking bad that it hurt. One I couldn’t have if I didn’t do something different.

My whole world was burning down around me—a raging inferno I had no control of. I had a choice: get the help I desperately needed or stay bound by my past and let it destroy me. To a normal person, the right answer was obvious. But to me the flames offered consistency. I knew them. I knew what to expect. I had no idea what would happen if I accepted help.

The uncertainty felt worse. But nothing would change if I didn’t change it.

“Yeah,” I whispered, choking on the word. “Yeah, I do.”