Restored by Sharon Hamilton

Author:Sharon Hamilton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Romance, SEALs, Military
Publisher: Frog Haven Press
Published: 2022-05-01T00:00:00+00:00

I waited ten hours, sleeping in the waiting room. Finally, they made up a bed for me, and Jared finally went home. Since Marco wasn’t in ICU, they allowed me to sleep in his room after his five-hour surgery. The doctor told me there would be many more. He told me Marco should never attempt to jump out of a plane again. We both had a laugh over that one.

But the good news, delivered on a beautiful pink and orange sunlit morning in Tampa, overlooking the blue water and all the little white boats zooming back and forth, the glistening city in the background standing proud, was that he was going to be okay.

“He must have some angel looking after him. For the life of me, I don’t understand why that piece of metal didn’t completely sever the artery. It was like someone was holding it until we could get in there and see it was going to tear away any second. We got it in time. His blood flow is good already. And he will heal. He won’t like the way the leg feels at first. But he’ll adapt.”

“Thank you, doctor. May I give you a hug?”

“My pleasure.”

I returned to Marco’s room and climbed in the bed beside him. I looked outside our window at the clouds and the day full of promise and hope. It wasn’t a view of the ocean, but it was a wonderful view just the same. If I could stick with the positive, somehow, the evil things coming our way would shed off like an old skin.

I turned on my side, watching his deep rhythmic breathing. His stubble was growing fast. His lips were full and dark pink. His forearms were covered in bands of tats chronicling all that he’d been through—all the men he knew who didn’t come home, the people he saved, the ones he couldn’t, and the wars he fought. His flesh was like a patchwork quilt stitched together with scars and scratches, holidays here and there where the dark hair didn’t grow back at all.

He was like one of the old quilts my grandmother had made, telling stories about the materials she used, the dresses her mother used to wear, all connected with stitches—the sinews of the heart.

I was still the luckiest girl alive.

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