If he had to do that, he could survive, keep moving, keep doing. He just wouldn’t want to.
He drifted through the day, lying in the bed, staring blankly out the window. Coughed. Thought about getting up and finding water for his dry throat, then decided against it. He sent some texts. Short stuff, to reassure his brother and mother.
Staying busy. Hope the trip is going well.
For Johnny and Amanda. Feeling a little under the weather, so might need a couple days.
Don’t know.
That last one was for Brick’s text, which came in later that afternoon from Richmond.
Any word on when your girl’s coming back?
He’d answered two questions in one. Because he also didn’t know if she was his anymore.
He woke at three a.m., having trouble breathing. He managed to push himself up to a sitting position, and his head swam. He was feverish.
Shit. Shit. Shit. He knew better than this. Apathy was an indulgence his body couldn’t afford.
He dragged himself into position to transfer himself to his chair. Dizziness assaulted him, but he trusted muscle memory to get him from point A to point B. Which would have worked, if he’d braked the damn chair properly. It shot out from under him and he hit the floor. The weight of his legs twisted him around, and he couldn’t stop the momentum. His forehead hit the corner of the foot board with a resounding thwack.
He saw stars, tried to steady himself. His phone had been left on the nightstand on the other side of the bed, out of reach unless he got himself back in the chair or could drag himself over there. Fear trickled through him, an unwelcome companion he knew too well from his earlier days in the chair, when he was weak and helpless.
“Damn it,” he snarled. The rage didn’t help. He felt nauseous, and his body wanted him to lie down, go to sleep. He was smart enough to fight it, but he was alone in the house, it was the middle of the night, and he might be too weak to get to his phone.
If he had a concussion, he could die down here.
No, he refused to think that. He wouldn’t do that to his mother, to his family. To Daralyn. Damn it, she’d think it was her fault.
He was better than this. He could be better than this for her. Nothing like a near-death experience to help a guy do a one-eighty and pull his head out of his own ass, but the lesson would be lost if he became a corpse on his bedroom floor.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, laying his head against the mattress. Weird images were swimming around on the floor, and God, he felt sick. “Please…don’t let me do this to them. I’m sorry. I just miss her so much. I can’t be without her. Daralyn…”
He whispered her name, felt the tears come, the anger slipping away. He’d figure this out in a minute, be strong. She should be able to expect him to be strong, except he was having trouble pulling air into his lungs in his slumped-over position. He needed to move.
A door opened somewhere in the house. The kitchen door, maybe? As he strained his ears, he realized he could be hallucinating, caught in a delirium of wishful thinking. It was the middle of the night, after all.
No, those were footsteps on the wood floor. Quiet ones. Whoever it was thought he was asleep, was trying not to wake him. They’d turned on the hallway light.
He tried to push a word out of his throat. “Help…”
Instead, he choked on a near laugh. Wouldn’t it be a fucking joke if it was a burglar? He kept a handgun in the nightstand. His hunting rifles were in a locked case in his closet. They did him just as much good as the phone.
The person was at the doorway, a silhouette. A woman whose slight figure was so beloved and familiar, but not at all expected. Great. He really had moved into hallucinations. It was all right. He’d take her anyway he could get her.
“Daralyn…” He spoke her name hoarsely.
“Rory.” She flipped the light switch, turning on the lamp beside his bed. She was wearing her jeans that were a faded light blue color, and the store T-shirt, the women’s version in a salmon color with yellow lettering. She had an oversized cardigan over it that gathered at her forearms. Her long hair was braided in a tail that rested over her