Battle

“Your dad’s wrong,” she says. “He’s a good guy, Faye.”

Marty and I haven’t talked much about me and Battle. It’s nice to know she’s on my side. I smile and nod. “What’s in that bag?”

She holds it up. “He brought one for me, too.”

Happy emotions attempt to bring tears, but I think I’m all cried out. “He did?”

“He called Austin and told him to pack somethin’ for me. You better marry this one.” Her words crush me. I lower my head, hoping she won’t see my distress. “What is it?”

“Oh, Mar. Battle will never marry me.”

“What? Why?”

“He’s kinda fucked up. That’s why!”

Realization dawns over her features. “Oh…his mom. He’s just scared, Faye, but he obviously loves you.”

“It’s not only his mother. He hates his father, and I know he has secrets. He has a car in his flippin’ garage he won’t even drive. He won’t tell me why, but that’s not normal.”

“Hey, hey.” She rubs my arms, trying to calm me down. I smile, although it’s forced and uncomfortable. “I don’t give a shit what he says. I know when a guy’s in love, and he loves you. It will all work out.”

“I hope you’re right, because I love him somethin’ fierce.”

We go into the bathroom to change. I try to tell her she can go home, but she refuses to leave me. I find a note at the bottom of the bag from Battle.

He went above what any guy I’ve ever known would do in this situation, and I can’t wait to thank him for it. Battle is one of the most considerate people I’ve ever met. The mental list I keep of his amazing qualities keeps growing. Other than his fear of love, which I’m not convinced is unwarranted, finding a single flaw in him has proven to be difficult.

Neither Marty nor I slept well. By six in the morning, we give up trying and venture down to the cafeteria for breakfast. The coffee tastes as gross as it did the night before, but the French toast and scrambled eggs isn’t terrible, although I only manage a few bites as my stomach turns.

Marty and I barely speak as I pick at my food, silently praying for Wyatt to recover. I think about times when we were happy together, like the first time he kissed me.

We were under the tree in

his backyard in late November. I snuggled close to him to keep warm, and he leaned over and asked if he could kiss me. My first kiss brought with it a rush of nerves. I remember the cold of his lips, mixing with the warmth of his mouth. I had no idea what I was doing, but I moved my tongue at the same pace as his, following along. My mind overpowered the moment, questioning if I was doing it right, and if he was enjoying it. As he ended the kiss, he smiled against my lips and said, “Faye Callahan, I’m fallin’ in love with you.”

As mere teenagers, perhaps neither of us knew what love was, but as the years passed, we figured it out. There was a time when our love was unquestionable, and now he could die without ever knowing how much he meant to me. Sure we grew apart, changed and made mistakes, but he gave me a first love I can be proud of, a love I can tell my daughter to demand with her first.

Please don’t let him die.

Please.

The waiting room buzzes with happiness as Marty and I return from breakfast. My parents hug the Daughtrey’s, and Gunner’s mother. I meet the happy gaze of my mother, knowing my prayers have been answered. She runs to me, and throws her arms around my neck.

“Oh, honey, he’s awake,” she sings in my ear. “And he’s talkin’. There’s no brain damage.” Joy circulates through me, bringing with it happy tears. She lets go of me, looking directly into my eyes, “He’s askin’ for you.”

Machines beep and hiss as I enter Wyatt’s room. He’s connected to wires and tubes, his fingers look like hamburger, and his skin glows with purple and yellow hues. His blond hair hangs in his closed eyes from under his bandaged head. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him fragile, and I hate it. I want to see the strong arrogant asshole I’ve been angry with lately because that man is a fighter. His eyes flutter open. He turns his head, wincing.

“Faye,” he says coughing, which makes him wince more.

“I’m here,” I say, moving to the chair at his bedside. I take his hand in mine. “Don’t you ever do that again. Do your hear me? You scared us.”

“I won’t,” he says, squirming with discomfort. “Especially now that you’ve come back to me.”

I squeeze my eyes tight, holding off tears. He thinks I’ve come back to him. How can I tell him that I haven’t when he’s fighting this hard to recover? I can’t. With a smile, I stroke the hair from his forehead. “You should rest,” I say, standing.

His grip on my hand tightens. “Please don’t ever leave me, again. I can’t take it.”

I nod with a stiff smile and leave the room. His mother waits outside his door. The way she looks at me sets my skin ablaze.