Page 33 of Love Wells Kept

If I could find a way to remember Jackson Wells, I’d do it for Kate.

That’s not an option today, but thankfully I have a surprise that should keep the smile held firm on her face.

Kate strolls into the room a little past eleven with an iced coffee in her hand. She’s wearing my jeans—I’ve quickly discovered her comment about wearing them during pregnancy wasn’t the whole story because, clearly, she wears them all the time. Today they’re paired with a cream-colored button-up shirt that’s partially tucked in, and a couple dainty pieces of turquoise jewelry. She has more color in her face, like she finally got a restful sleep.

Kate has a natural beauty that’s caught me off guard a few times over the last week, but seeing her cheeks tinged pink and eyes without harsh bags under them, she’s a knockout. And I feel a weird sensation that I assume is what the leads in the rom-coms I’ve been bingeing late at night refer to as butterflies.

“Hey, handsome,” she says as she settles into her usual spot on a worn-out upholstered chair with metal armrests and legs.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable.” I smile at her as I toss back the bedding and shuffle to the edge of the bed.

She starts to stand, preparing to help me. With what, I’m not sure. I can get myself to the bathroom and even take a short walk around my wing of the hospital without assistance.

I hum quietly to myself as I begin gathering my belongings from my bedside table. Considering I arrived with nothing but the clothes on my back, I’ve amassed quite a collection of things. It seems my family can’t visit without bringing me something they think might be useful. And for a bunch of people constantly asking when I’ll be discharged, they’ve made it seem like I’ll be here for the rest of my life with some of the shit they’ve left here. More than one pair of slippers is entirely unnecessary considering I don’t even hit a thousand steps in a day.

My hands pause when I look up at her, temporarily losing myself in the green roaming through her glimmering irises. The anxiety about going home quiets for a second. “Let’s get out of here.”

With a smile that squints her eyes, Kate scooches forward in her chair to help collect my things. “Finally letting me bust you out of this hellhole?”

“Exactly.”

“Are you ready to leave? I mean…you feel okay about going to the ranch? Seeing the kids and everyone else?”

The thought of returning to a place I don’t remember, with people I barely know, scares the hell out of me. But the alternative is staying here, where I never get a moment’s peace between therapies, medical tests, and ceaseless hospital noise. I hate the thought of that so much, I’m willing to deal with the discomfort and fears about leaving. About going home.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

“In that case, this is the slowest escape from prison I’ve ever seen.” She stands up and holds her giant purse wide open. “Just sweep all your stuff off the table into my bag and let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

Our hands brush as together we do exactly that, and warmth floods up to my cheeks.

“You’re not gonna question this?” In an effort not to look at her, for fear the blush will spread, I stare at my slippered feet and silently curse my family for not bringing me a pair of outdoor shoes. Who knows what happened to the ones I came in here wearing.

“One thing to know about me, Jackson Wells—I’m ride or die. If a person I love needs me to do something like stand up to their abusive ex-husband or bust them out of the hospital, I’m doing it without question.”

I push myself to stand, holding still for a moment as a stabbing pain in my skull sends shivers down my spine. Then I nod at her, and she gestures for me to lead the way.

Once we’re in the hallway, I rely on Kate to show me the way, because I’ve been walking the halls in my hospital wing during physical therapy, but they haven’t exactly shown me the route to escape the building.

She walks slowly without needing to be asked and looks over her shoulder no less than once every thirty seconds. Each step makes my brain feel as if it’s about to blow the bone flap they replaced in my skull like the cork on a shaken bottle of champagne. One wrong move and pop.

Thankfully the elevator has rails I can support my body weight with and, as if she knew I was getting out today, Kate’s illegally parked in a loading zone just beyond where the elevator opens to the parking garage. She hovers over me while I clamber into the passenger seat, likely assuming I don’t remember the basic function of a seatbelt. I do.

The car smells of a bizarre combination of coconut, Cheerios, and the slightest hint of cow shit. My nose reflexively scrunches at it as I look around the backseat, taking in more clues about my life. The car seat is definitely the culprit for the Cheerios smell, based on the amount of sandy crumbs packed into every crevice. Next to it, there’s a doll with a botched haircut and streaks of marker across her naked body.

Kate slides into the driver’s seat and catches my eye. “The kids are basically a pair of tornados destroying the house, car, flower beds…. It’s a good thing they’re cute.”

“Does the house smell like Cheerios, too?” I glance around the front of the car, and I home in on a Polaroid picture wedged against Kate’s sun visor.

She laughs softly. “During breakfast, sometimes. But no, mostly it smells like baking. I bake an obscene amount of bread every week to make sandwiches for all the cowboys. And Beryl and Cecily usually make at least one dessert every day.”

I reach up and pluck the photo from the visor as she speaks. Me and her. She’s in a beautiful floor-length strapless dress. I’ve got a tight hold on her waist, and her hand’s splayed across my stomach. She seems to be mid-laugh, and I have a matching grin—staring directly at her, rather than the camera.

Kate clears her throat. “That’s from Austin’s wedding a couple years ago.”

“We look happy.”

“We were.” Melancholy lilts in her honey-sweet voice, and she pulls the car out of the loading zone before we can be ticketed.