Love Is Always Write Volume 4

even imagine it.
    "As I said, I'm just happy she's doing well." Jonathan extended his left hand, the only one that was free. "Jonathan Nitch," he introduced.
    The woman awkwardly accepted his hand with her right, "Frieda May, and this is my daughter, Talia."
    Jonathan ruffled the girl's head, now resting on his shoulder, "Nice to make your acquaintance, Talia."
    The girl nodded and squeaked out a polite, "Nice to meet you," before burying her face in his hospital shirt, which probably smelled like chemicals and medicine, but she didn't say anything.
    "If there's anything I or my husband can do for you," Frieda started, but Jonathan quickly cut her off.
    "I didn't save her for any reward. Really, there's nothing you need to do."
    "Well, anyway," Frieda said, obviously uncomfortable not being able to pay back her debt. "We've told the hospital to bill us, which includes your physical therapy."
    Jonathan smiled. Some families only knew how to give money to show they cared. He couldn't blame their upbringing, and they seemed like very caring parents for Talia. "Thank you, then. I do appreciate it. I'm sure my insurance company will be sending you a big thank you as well."
    Frieda laughed and seemed to relax a little; whether at Jonathan's acceptance of their gift or at his humor, it was hard to say.
    Then the man Jonathan had been waiting for and fearing appeared, walking around Frieda to settle on Jonathan's free side. His features were stiff as he gave a curt nod to Frieda.
    The woman shifted and moved to lift Talia off the bed. "Well, I suppose we'll leave you two, then. Say goodbye, Talia."
    "Goodbye," came the near-whisper.
    "Bye, Talia," Jonathan said, waving at her as he looked back.
    Then all he had to focus on was the stiff, quiet husband at his side. Jonathan twisted the thin quilt between his fingers, searching for the right thing to say. "Stacy," he started, but the broad hand resting on the bed near his fisted in the bed tightly.
    Stacy stood, facing the window, and still didn't look at Jonathan directly. "Jonathan," he said, "I can't do this."
    Jonathan's stomach plummeted like he'd been dropped off the side of a cliff.
    No longer caring about any noble thoughts he'd had of offering a divorce or wanting Stacy's cold emotion, Jonathan shoved himself up, intending to reach out for Stacy. If he could just touch him, get himself wrapped in those arms one more time, Jonathan would do anything to be forgiven. He just couldn't imagine what it would be like to live with the black hole that was opening up inside him.
    Unfortunately, Jonathan's hip was still very tender and not at all capable of propelling him out of bed. Quickly, he went from lunging forward to toppling over the side of his unguarded bed. Jesus, the humiliation.
    But Stacy caught him, and those almost-too-warm arms wrapped around him again, easing him back into the bed and settling him against the pillows.
    "Fucking Christ, Jonathan. What are you doing?" Stacy practically yelled. "You're gonna tear open your hip, and if you mess up your pins, you'll never walk right."
    Jonathan barely processed what was being said. Stacy was close. Close enough to smell. Close enough to touch. And he was staring down at Jonathan. "Please, please don't leave me. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" He pleaded.
    Stacy twisted his eyebrows and ran one of his hands through Jonathan's hair, moving the mop out of his face. "What are you talking about?" he said.
    Jonathan hated the burning in his throat, the tight sensation around his ears and nose that indicated nausea or a good bout of crying about to come on. Maybe both. "You said you couldn't do it, but I swear, I didn't mean to get involved! But it was a little girl, Stacy, please!"
    Then Stacy was half-sitting in the bed with him, resting Jonathan partially against his chest as he rubbed comforting circles over Jonathan's arms and stomach. "Of course I'm staying, you dunce. We're married. I love you. Not even you can get me to leave you."
    Jonathan tried to accept that, tried to let it and the touches calm his system, but the anxiety just seemed to build. "I thought you were mad. You said you couldn't do this," he sobbed.
    Stacy sighed, and for a minute, all he did was touch Jonathan, reassuring him without words. "I am mad, Jonathan. I'm furious that you got shot. That you were anywhere near where I might have to shoot or send in tear gas or watch as people bleed out," he said. "I never want to see you in the field