Hard Beat

Love. It’s an incredibly euphoric and unbelievably scary feeling all at once. I think the only thing that could make me feel more vulnerable is if I’d told her I loved her and she didn’t say it back.

Like I did to her on our last date.

Holy shit. How fucking stupid was I? Trying to be cool and play by old-school rules when I knew all along that things were different with Beaux. The never-say-I-love-you-back-or-it-doesn’t-mean-the-same-thing philosophy didn’t apply to her. Damn it to hell, if I say it, I mean it, so why did I ever hesitate? Is it because I thought that it was too quick to feel this strongly about someone? Well, I do.

Now she’s lying in a bed somewhere, not knowing how much I care about her. There’s nothing that’s going to stop me from telling her I love her now.

Nothing.

The ride to the medical facility feels like it takes the same amount of time as the flight: forever. The minute I step foot in the lobby of Landstuhl, I forget all of my aches and pains from the blast, the stitches in my shoulder, and the gash up the back of my calf – all of it – because my body is running on pure adrenaline from the thought that she’s here.

After the rigmarole of the front desk, checking in, getting a visitor’s clearance sticker, it takes everything I have not to scream at the lady behind the desk who I’m sure is sweeter than sugar to just hurry the fuck up because I have a woman upstairs I need to see.

And time is of the essence.

Impatient, I can’t wait any longer as she turns around to call and inform the intensive care unit that Beaux has a visitor. Time is wasting. I ignore the dull throbbing in my head and jog toward the elevators, knowing that I get to see her in mere moments is the only thing I can focus on, each moment overshadowed by the anticipation of the next.

The ding of the elevator as I reach the third floor causes my heart to skip a beat and lodge in my throat as I all but run off the car and toward the nurses’ station in the center of the hallway. As I rush to the desk, my heart thunders in my ears, and my eyes dart all over as the sounds and sights of the ICU ward assault my senses: the sterile smell, the steady beeps from the monitors in the rooms around us on a constant barrage are an immediate reminder of the gravity of the situation.

Yes, I’m going to tell her I love her, tell her I’m sorry, tell her I’m not going to leave her side until she’s discharged, but for the first time, the thought hits me that she might not ever hear it. And then that blinding panic I felt when I was trying to get to her and again when I woke up two days ago hits me with blunt force. My eyes dart furiously around the unit, but the room numbers are obscured by all of the medical carts and paraphernalia. All I want is to see her to clear up all of this unsettled bullshit. Once I can touch her and be reassured by the sight of her chest moving up and down telling me that she’s breathing, then I can ease all of the discord I feel within and deal with concretes.

I’m good with the concrete. I may live a life that thrives on the spontaneity of others’ actions, but fuck if I like to live in that suspended state of limbo when it comes to my personal life.

I approach the nurses’ station, smiling warmly at the petite woman behind the desk. It takes me a minute to find my voice as urgency and anxiety collide in a ball of turmoil within me. “Beaux Croslyn’s room, please?”

“Your name, please?” she asks as she picks up a clipboard toward the side of the desk and flips a page up, her eyes lifting to meet mine.

“Tanner Thomas.” My body vibrates with so many emotions that I find it hard to stand still as I wait for her to look for my name on the approved list. And then when her brow furrows, I immediately start to panic. “I’m approved. I know I am.” I pound a fist on the desk, an action that jolts up my shoulder and causes me to wince.

She puts her hands out in front of her in a “calm down” gesture. “I’m sure you’re on here. Just give me a moment please, sir.” Her eyes meet mine, trying to calm me just like the soothing tone in her voice. I don’t think she gets the only thing that is going to calm me down is seeing Beaux.

But I turn around and walk a few feet away from the desk, my hands kneading the back of my neck as I try to contain the frustration while I wait yet again to see her.

“Mr. Thomas?” Eyes wide, I’m at the desk in a second, leaning forward and ready to take off in whichever direction her room is. “Sorry for the wait, but since you aren’t immediate family, I had to make sure you were approved by the chain of command.” My audible exhale of relief fills the space between us. “Ms. Croslyn’s room is three hundred seven, and I —”

I don’t hear anything else she says because I grab my bag and am already taking off, searching for her room number. And when I finally find it, in my mind I hesitate for the slightest second before barreling through the doorway to face what I fear head-on.

The immediate sight of her staggers me. She looks ten times worse than I ever imagined and a hundred times better than my fears had her looking. I expect my feet to falter when I see her bruised face, the cannula in her nose for oxygen, her small body dwarfed by the white, imposing bed, but they don’t. And I don’t pay an ounce of attention to the two doctors off to the other side of the room as I take her in because nothing and no one matters right now but her.

I’m at her bedside in a second, bag dropped to the floor, and my hand immediately finds one of hers while my other hand reaches out to cup the side of her face. And ironically I don’t know which of us I’m trying to reassure more with the rub of my thumb over her cheek. And Christ, even like this, that zing when I touch her skin ripples through me in that indescribable and unmistakable connection between us.