"Shhh...Kylie. Everything's okay."
Low light suddenly bathes me from the lamp on the nightstand. Alex is beside me, his arms encircling me, consoling me, his lips gentle and warm against my ear.
I want to scream, "Nothing is okay!" but only a soft whimper emerges. I hazard a look at his chest, expecting to see the blood-soaked shirt. But it is bright white, and without a wrinkle marring it. I rest my hand against his heart, reveling in its strong beat against my palm.
He's alive.
I desperately try to separate fact from fiction. Dream from reality. "Did John shoot you, Alex?"
"No, baby." He takes my hand from his heart and kisses it tenderly before moving it to my shoulder. The skin is soft but lumpy. "He shot you. Do you remember?"
My memories are dark. I try to focus but I can’t see them. And then a dam bursts, the memories a raging river threatening to pull me under and drown me. Disjointed scenes. John talking to Alex. Waving the gun. Professing we would always be together, even if it meant in death. Sentencing Alex to a life of regret and guilt, knowing he was the cause of me dying.
I woke in the hospital weeks later from a coma caused by a closed head injury. I've been recovering—mentally and physically—ever since.
"You were having a nightmare." Alex lifts my chin and forces me to look at him.
I'm lost in his eyes, seeking the strength he always provides. "It was so real. John was on the trail. He had a gun."
"He can't hurt you anymore, Kylie." Alex's voice is soft, but his jaw tightens.
"He's gone?" My voice is scratchy and dry.
Alex stills, his muscles suddenly rigid. He exhales, dropping his shoulders. "Yes."
"Forever?"
"Forever, baby."
I drop my head against his chest and grasp his shirt. My heartbeat slows. Breathing becomes natural, easy. This man. He is my rock. My safety net. The one whom I love more than anyone in the world.
He lays us down on the bed. I nestle into his side, and rest my arm across his chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
John is dead. He's gone forever. He can't hurt us ever again.
Lightly pressing my lips against Alex's shirt, I move them up to his neck, and taste the saltiness of his skin. I skim the edge of his jaw with my fingers, the stubble like sandpaper, the light scent of his sweat mixing with his musky, woodsy cologne. I shift my hips, and nestle my leg between his, rubbing my knee along the inside of his thigh.
I want him. I crave the way he makes me feel alive when we make love. How our bodies become so intertwined, as if we are one, hearts fused together by the deep love we share. I have been needing it for so long.
Alex takes my hand, removes it from his face, and places it safely back on his chest with a gentle pat. He pulls his head away and I'm unable to kiss his neck.
"Kylie, not tonight."
I groan and roll onto my back, take a deep breath, and hold onto it for a moment before letting it rush out of my lungs. All the tension I released a moment earlier floods my body once again. A wave of nausea hits me. My stomach muscles convulse. I clench my jaw to keep from screaming, and force back my tears.
Alex pulls my hands from my face. "I'm sorry, baby. I have an early conference call on this new venture, and we are at a tenuous point in negotiations. I want to get some sleep so I'm ready for it. Okay?"
I study his face—dark circles under his eyes, eyebrows drawn together. He tosses and turns most nights, and rarely gets any sleep. Stress his constant companion over the last couple of months. Watching John shoot me, waiting to see if I survived the surgery to remove the bullet. Worried I might never wake from the coma.
None of this has been easy on him.
I nod, smile, and close my eyes. When will Alex and I finally renew the connection we had before John ruined our lives? Was I right all along? Is happiness as fleeting as the setting sun on the horizon? There one minute—beautiful and breathtaking—and gone in the blink of an eye?
I roll onto my side with my back to Alex, bury my face in the pillow, and cry.