Incapable (Love Triumphs 3)

“You think I’m going to take your ticket, your money. I’m not a charity case.”

He didn’t know where exactly she was standing. He tucked his head down to cough into his hand. “Yeah, Georgia you are. You have no job, almost no savings. I bought you a dress before I even fucked you. I’m trying to help you out.” He couldn’t let her think there was any way back from here. “There’s no great mystery. The sex is fantastic, baby, you know I’m into that, but did you think we were forever? I need a break. Let’s just take a rest and see what happens.”

“Don’t do this, Damon.”

“What? Make it easy for you to visit your husband?” He said that word, husband, and it hurt him as much as it was intended to hurt her.

“Please don’t do this.”

“The airline points are meaningless to me. Three months of your rent is the cost of a new suit that I’ll write off on tax. If you’re so worried about me financing this, don’t use the car service or the apartment.”

“This is what you want.”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m going back to my regular life. I travel a lot. Much as this has been good, I don’t have room for a relationship. I thought this was the right thing for you.”

“You thought making my decisions for me was the right thing to do?”

His knuckles ached from the grip he had on his stick. “Fuck, yes. What do I have to say to get you to understand? We’re done now.”

Something bashed into the back of his leg. A woman grabbed his arm. “Oh honey, I’m so sorry, that bag got away from me. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure, honey?”

He waved the woman off, distracted. He had no sense of Georgia. She’d have spoken, surely. “Georgia?”

He swept the stick out in front of him. Nothing. He’d gotten disoriented, no longer sure which way he was facing. He spun around. “Georgia. Georgia.”

“You okay, mate?”

“There was a woman with me.” She meant everything to him and he just ended it.

“You’re standing here by yourself, mate. I’m airport security. Can I help you?”

He shook his head. No one could help him.

He caught a cab directly to the hospital and checked himself in. He had time before the surgery prep to enquire about whether Georgia got on the flight. There was nothing he could do if she didn’t. But she wouldn’t be able to find him. None of them would. They were all in the dark.

Only his parents knew about the new round of surgery, the risk, the low percentage chance that he’d come out of it with any voice at all.

For risky surgery, the cordectomy went well. The micro-surgeon removed the glottic cancers and re-sectioned the vocal cord. It could’ve been much worse. He had a new scar but he wasn’t breathing through a hole in his neck.

No one could say what kind of a voice he’d have when he recovered, but they were sure he’d be able to make himself heard and understood.

It would have to be enough. He should be grateful.

He was a week in hospital.

He felt nothing but rage.

He went home to the farm. He was on absolute voice rest for two weeks and only limited vocalisations for a month. He kept his phone off. He replied to email as if he was out of the country. He didn’t hear from Georgia, but he knew she’d spent two nights at the apartment. He had his books and Mum’s home cooking. He had long walks and music. He played chess with Dad. His throat felt bad and he didn’t feel like eating. He had antibiotics and steroids and a throat pump to stop him coughing.

Dad set him up a rudimentary gym in an old barn. He spent hours there. He slept. He dreamed; frightening drug-induced nightmares where his heart had been removed and replaced with a tin box and his lips had been sewn shut. He healed. He hoped.