The Story Of Us Part 33

It's been months since we did that.

I change the station to something Maverick and I haven't sung together. By the time I arrive at Perkins, I've listened to more cla.s.sical music than I have in the last twenty-two years of my life.

I go inside and sit down at the table we always sit at. She's not here yet, but I go ahead and order our sweet teas.

A minute later, Finley slides into the booth seat across from me. "Road construction," she says, explaining why I arrived before her. It's halfway exactly, but Finn pushes the speed limit laws, whereas I set my cruise to one mile under the limit. It drives her crazy.

The waitress comes over and asks for our orders. Finn nods for me to go first.

"She'll have two slices of French toast, a bowl of fruit, and a side of French fries."

Finley's turn. "And she'll have two eggs, scrambled, sausage links instead of bacon, hash browns, and a side salad with house dressing, hold the onions."

The waitress jots down our orders and leaves with no expression, as if she gets orders like ours every day. Maybe she does. Maybe we're not as weird as we think we are.

Finley takes a drink, then crosses her arms on the table and leans over them. "So what's going on that you called this meeting?"

I stare at the salt and pepper shakers on the back edge of the table. "I don't know, Finn. I guess I thought life with Maverick would be easier than this. G.o.d, it's our anniversary, and I feel like c.r.a.p."

She waits for me to continue. I take a deep breath. Then I tell her about our fight.

Finally, I lift my eyes to meet hers. "How can someone change that much in that little time?"

Finley bites her lip. "s.h.i.+t, Ali. I'm not an expert on that stuff."

"No, but you're an expert on me. Am I different?"

"Different than what?"

"From who I was before."

Finley's expression softens as she removes her elbows from the table. "Yes."

I squeeze my eyes closed.

"All of us are different, Ali," Finn says. "That's the point, I think. No one ever really stays the same. We experience new things. Learn new things. Grow into our skin. And-I don't know-I kinda think the people in our lives leave a mark on us, even the ones who don't stay. They become a part of us, and maybe it sounds stupid, but it's like we absorb a piece of them and they absorb a piece of us. How can anyone stay the same after that?"

I look at her. Her brows are knit together, lips pulled in between her teeth, and eyes glistening with moisture I never see. She doesn't try to smile or speak or break her gaze from mine. She's serious, but that's not what makes me study her longer.

They say there are moments in everyone's life when all of the trials and laughter of the past come rus.h.i.+ng at you at once. Some people call it "lights clicking on." Some, "epiphany." Others describe it like a wave of their own memories was.h.i.+ng over them. For me, though, it's more like pieces of popcorn strung onto a cord. One by one, memories. .h.i.t each other, creating a strand of every lesson, every person, every tear, every smile that has brought me to this moment-all connected.

Finley's right. I'm not the same girl I once was. After Chris, after Cancun, after Maverick-after the pregnancy. I am different.

And Maverick's different.

But what makes it so breathtaking is that I now realize we didn't become these new people alone. We did it together-him influencing me, and me influencing him. Somewhere, our strands intersected and entwined.

Finley's different too. How had I not seen that until now? She's wiser, more thoughtful. She's still eccentric, especially in her hot pink skinny jeans and yellow tank. Still the crazy girl who's pulled me out of two depressions and runs to my rescue whenever I call.

"They can't," I say, answering her question.

"Ali, Maverick practically wors.h.i.+ps you. He probably just doesn't know how to deal with what's happened the last few months. He was a wreck when he asked me to come stay with you."

"I tried to forget he was there," I whispered, ashamed. Our baby was his too. He was grieving. Maybe it was even harder for him because he was also fighting for me?

"I need to see him. It's our anniversary, Finn. We should do something, him and I."

Finley squeals. "Yes! I know: go to his office wearing nothing under a long trench coat, then back him into his office and screw him on his desk. Bam! Office make-up s.e.x." She grins like the idea is the most stellar one in the universe.

"He works in a cubical."

"I'm sure the stuck-up suits around him won't mind the show, especially if they get to stare at your naked a.s.s."

"Be serious."

"I am."

"Be more serious."

"So, like, lame?"

"Finley!"

"Fine. Then go home, cook him a phenomenal meal, flirt, and then give him the best b.l.o.w. .j.o.b he's ever had."

I roll my eyes. "b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs don't fix problems this big, Finn."

She smirks. "Have you ever tried?"

"No."

"So what do you have to lose?"

Chapter 54.

Present day 5:13 a.m.

I've been awake for twenty-seven hours. They're more like years. Twenty-seven years of worry, heartache, and pain. And still, there's no change.

The Propofol is long out of his system. The monitors read out a steady heartbeat, and his blood pressure is in the normal range. There's no medical reason why he's still asleep.

Finley dozed off a couple of hours ago, leaving Maverick and me alone. I hold his hand too tight, but I can't let go.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again. I've said it a million times, and I'll probably say it a million more. Anything, I'll say. I'll do anything. Just...

"Wake up, Mav. Please."

His eyelids don't twitch. Lips don't move.

I'm out of options. All I have left is hope.

"I'm not good at words, you know that. I've been drawing again. Sketches mostly. There's about a dozen of them." I grab my book and start flipping through the pages. "This first one is basically just crimson. It's how I started when I got here, fear taking over everything in my mind. And then this one is still crimson, but you can at least see that there's a drawing behind it. These are your monitors. Your hand. Your IV pole." I turn the next one vertical. "This one might not be real, but it's what I imagine the scars on your chest look like." I flip the book horizontal again. "Your eyes are here, with the bandages. This is a little boy I saw out in the waiting room. He's holding an indigo Matchbox car. This is the blinds. See how there's the smallest amount of light filtering through? Then here's Finley sleeping. My Styrofoam cup of coffee. The blood pressure cuff around your upper arm. And this one"-I go to my last drawing-"this is you. There's not much red, see? Lots of cerulean, though."

I bite the inside of my cheek. Deep down, I know he can hear me. "I don't blame you, Maverick. I mean, I did before. I thought that if only you hadn't worked so many hours, our lives would be different. Maybe we'd still be expecting our baby."

I lower my head into my hands and start over. "We had a c.r.a.ppy year. It was nothing like what we'd planned." I fight the emotion rising in my throat. "It sounds crazy, but I think this year was actually good for us. I don't want all of our plans to work out. What if we miss out on something better? Something we didn't see coming, like our baby? This year taught me a lot about the people we are, the people we're not, and the people we want to be. It wasn't pretty, but we grew this year."

I blink back tears. Focus on the blurry blanket. "I lied. I'm not done with us, Maverick. I'm so, so far from being done. But I need you to wake up so I can tell you all of this. I promised you my life. And you promised me yours. Your whole life, not just a year of it. So you see, you have to wake up. Because I'm not letting you out of us."

I wipe tears from my cheeks. Cast my stare on Maverick's face, his beautiful, beautiful face with those gorgeous dark irises peering back at me.

My breath hitches.

"Mav?" I whisper.

He raises his hand and fumbles with the oxygen mask. I help him remove it.

"Alieya," he husks.

"Maverick."

"I'm here."

I don't know what to do. I want to jump on top of him, scream, squeeze him against me so, so tight. But I can't.

His hand finds mine. "Come here."

I lean over him, and he cups my face. I turn into his hand. Soft and warm and familiar. I kiss the bottom of his palm.

His thumbs brush over my cheeks. "You're even breathtaking when you cry."

"I'm sorry, Maverick. I'm sorry for everything I said, and I'm sorry for pus.h.i.+ng you away."

"Stop. Just let me look at you for a minute." His voice is scratchy and quiet, but it's his.

The lights are dimmed, and I don't know how much he sees. Me, I see white. Pure, pure white.

He's quiet as he studies me, exploring the contours of my face and neck. He hooks a finger around a loose strand of hair and drags it down to the end.

"Happy anniversary," he murmurs. "My wife." The corner of his mouth lifts. "I'd kiss you, but I can't move."

I lean over him. He pushes my hair away, and a finger grazes over my lips. Then he kisses me. An explosion of blue and yellow erupts in my mind. There's red too, the same hue that appeared back in Cancun.

But it's not the colors that lift my heart now. It's just Maverick.

My husband. My life.

When he finishes, he smiles.

"You're mine, Jellysnack. You'll always be mine."

EPILOGUE.

Chicago, Illinois.

Two years later.

"s.h.i.+t!"

I'm going to rip in two, right down the middle.

I squeeze Maverick's hand as hard as I can. He's not getting out of this unscathed. No, he put me in this predicament, and so help me G.o.d, he's going to feel what I have to endure!

He doesn't act like my grip hurts. "You're doing great, baby. So great. Breathe."

"I hate you," I say through gritted teeth.

"I know." He smiles his makes-me-melt smile, and it helps to ease the pain. For three seconds.

"All right, Alieya, give me a good push this time, okay? From your gut," the midwife says, as if I haven't been giving her good ones so far. Nope, they've all been weeny pushes.

Fourteen hours of labor. I've had it.

I tilt my head so I can concentrate on Maverick behind me. He must see the steely resolve in my eyes, because he becomes serious and adjusts my hand in his for the next push.

The contraction comes, and I'm ready. I take a deep breath, already putting Maverick's hand in a death grip. And then I push like I'm capable of superhuman strength. I wail loud and long, until I'm out of breath. Then I inhale again and push.

I haven't forgotten about our first son. I never will. He has his own section of popcorn on our string, memories I'll cherish forever.

We finally picked a name for him: Elliot James. We bought a small stone and held a memorial service at Memorial Park. I like to go out to his tree and read to him on Sunday afternoons. He'd be three this year.

"I feel a head," the midwife says.

We're in a birthing tub, Maverick straddling me. I feel him rise up a little, even though there's no possible way he can see what's going on under the water. I really wish he wouldn't move like that.

Another contraction rips through my body, and I need Maverick to sit. The f.u.c.k. Down. Screaming, I dig my nails into his thighs and push again. I hear him gasp at the marks I'm carving into his skin. He's smart enough to keep his mouth shut, though. And he does sit back down.