Page 52 of Seven Minutes
“I know you meant it,” he said quietly, still looking forward. His voice was rough, worn thin at the edges. “Everything you said. In the hospital.”
My throat tightened. “I did. I do.”
He nodded once, as if he needed to acknowledge that before he could say the rest.
“I want to believe you. God, I do.” His fingers shifted slightly against mine, not quite squeezing. “But I don’t know how to just… trust it yet. Not all at once.”
I swallowed. “That’s fair.”
He let out a slow breath. “It’s not that I think you’re lying. It’s just…” He trailed off, searching. “I’ve believed it before. That things would change. That we’d be okay. And when it didn’t…” He shook his head faintly. “I don’t think I could survive that again. Not like before.” His voice dropped. “It would wreck me worse than… than the crash did.”
The words settled between us, heavy and unmovable. I turned my hand under his, threading our fingers together carefully, afraid he might pull away.
“I’m not asking you to believe me right away. I know I don’tget that anymore.” My voice came out rougher than I intended. “I just— I’m going to show you. Every day. As long as it takes.”
Eli finally turned his head, meeting my eyes. There was something open there. Hope, maybe. But guarded, as if it knew better than to rush forward.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Not forgiveness. Not yet. But not nothing, either.
The hush that followed wasn’t empty. It shifted, settled into something quieter, more cautious. A shadow stretching between us, not gone, but no longer swallowing everything whole.
His hand stayed in mine. And for now, that was enough.
Finally, I got out and came around to help him. He hesitated before accepting the crutches, jaw clenched, pride fighting pain. I didn’t blame him. I slid my arm around his waist, taking most of his weight off his healing ribs.
The front steps loomed larger than I remembered. I paused there, letting him rest. The porch light had been left on—his parents, probably—and it bathed the doorway in a soft, forgiving glow.
And that’s when it hit me.
Halloween. The same steps, years ago. A cold night filled with laughter, a bowl of candy between us as a stream of costumed kids paraded past. He’d made fun of my pumpkin-carving skills, and I’d called him a tyrant in flannel. Later that night, in bed, we’d whispered about someday…somedayhaving a family of our own. A kid to take trick-or-treating. A life bigger than the one we were barely holding together.
Eli had fallen asleep with his hand on my chest and a heavinessin his voice. “You’d make a great dad,” he’d murmured, half-dreaming.
The words carried the weight of a cement truck sitting squarely on my chest. Because I wouldn’t. I’d be an absent parent. Someone who showed up late to school plays and made excuses about hospital shifts. I’d be neglectful, too consumed by the next patient, the next emergency, while my husband picked up the pieces.
I’d told myself love would make up for it. That being good at saving lives would somehow translate to knowing how to raise one. But even then, lying there with his breath against my heart, I knew it was a lie I wanted too badly to believe.
Now, standing there with him bruised and broken, pale and quiet, I realized how wrong I’d been. Love wasn’t enough. Not the kind we’d had.
Still, I tightened my grip on his hip and whispered, “You ready?”
He nodded faintly.
I felt the fragile tremor of his effort as he tried to lift his leg up each short step. His breath hitched, sharp and shallow as he tried to swallow the pain. My fingers dug deeper into his waist—more bone than it used to be—and for a moment, we just stood there, suspended between motion and memory.
“One step at a time,” I murmured.
He nodded again, jaw tight. I matched his pace as he lifted one foot, then the other, the world narrowing to the scrape of his shoes on the concrete and the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing. The porch steps had never seemed so high.
When we finally reached the top, he stopped to rest, handgripping the railing, chest heaving. I caught the faintest twitch of a smile that was defiant, exhausted, and proud.
“This counts as cardio,” he managed.
“Don’t make me prescribe you rest on your first day home,” I said, trying for lightness, but my voice wavered at the edges. “Sit.”
I opened the door to the lingering scent of lemon cleaner and stale air spilling out to meet us. Eli stared past me into the shadowed hall, his expression unreadable. I knew what he was thinking—the house didn’t feel like home yet. Maybe it hadn’t in a long time.
