Page 103 of Returned Mail

Mack stood, stretching his arms over his head. “Actually, I do need to head out. Got to get back before Mitchell realizes I've been gone longer than authorized.” He clapped a hand on my shoulder, careful to avoid the injured side. “But I'll call, alright? Keep in touch. And when you're cleared to come back, drinks are on me.”

“You're damn right they are.”

“Take care of yourself, George. And let that woman take care of you too. You're allowed to do that, you know.”

“Get out of here before you make me cry.”

“Now that I'd pay to see.” He headed for the door, then paused. “Oh, and George? Your accountant is way out of your league.”

“I know. Go find her and grab your coffee.”

He grinned one last time and disappeared into the hallway, leaving me alone with the steady beep of monitors and the lingering warmth of knowing that despite everything. The pain, the recovery, the uncertainty, I had people who gave a damn. And one person in particular who'd decided I was worth sticking around for.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mia

This morning feels different.

Enough that when I walk into George's room carrying coffee and a stale blueberry muffin, he isn't asleep. He's sitting up. Like actually sitting up. Not half-conscious. Not drifting in and out. Not fighting through whatever cocktail of medication they've been pumping into him.

His eyes find me immediately, and then they soften. I don't think he realizes he does that. I don't think he knows how much it affects me. “Morning, Sergeant Hale,” I say.

His voice is still rough around the edges when he answers. “Morning, Mia.”

“You look better today.”

He glances down at himself. “That's a lie.”

“You do look better… than yesterday.” He winks at me, and we both laugh.

For the first time since he’s been awake, breakfast arrives, and George actually eats it. It’s progress, and I’m all for it. By the afternoon, he's sitting in the chair by the window. By evening, he's arguing with a nurse about whether he needs help getting back into bed.

Progress.

Definitely progress.

We spent that night talking and watching some lame game TV show until we both fell asleep.

Today is day three of him being fully awake and functional, and he is taking his first walk. It’s hard and incredible at the same time. But also, very painful to watch. The physical therapist stands on one side, and I’m on the other.

George looks deeply offended by this entire situation. “I hate all of you.”

The therapist smiles. “You've said that four times, Hale.”

“Oh, and I mean it every time.” He says, rolling his eyes at her as he takes another step.

“One more lap.” She says, pushing him a little.

“You're a terrible person.”

I bite back a laugh.

The walk isn't far. It’s just one hallway. Then we go to the next one, then back to the room. But I get why he gets so upset. This shit is hard. By the time we're done, sweat beads along George's forehead and his breathing is heavier than he'd ever admit. Still. He did it, and when we get back to the room, something shifts in him. Something hopeful. Like he can finally see the finish line, even though we’re just getting started.

Today marks a week of him waking up, and the doctors are starting to talk about a possible and soon discharge. He’s not going home yet, but we’re getting closer to that. Close enough that George starts asking questions, and we can finally see his future become more than just a possibility.

Close enough that I start feeling something ugly in my stomach.