Rachel gave the room a quick scan.
The utilitarian tube that functioned as his new leg, along with the hard, flesh-colored shell that fit over his stump, were jumbled on the floor in the corner—as if he’d hurled them from the bed.
Above them, the mar on the paint confirmed her suspicion.
The rosebush story was less simple to sort out.
“How did Ned’s grandson get involved in this?”
He glared at her. “He must have seen me struggling. When he offered to help, I figured the sooner I got done, the sooner I could move on to a few beers.” He swept a hand over the three cans lined up on the nightstand that she hadn’t noticed until now. “So I said fine. Then I fell while he was here. Or I would have if he hadn’t caught me.” Bright spots of color reddened his cheeks. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”
“I’m sorry, honey. I know it—”
“No!” His bellow reverberated off the walls, and she flinched. “You don’t know anything! Not what it’s like to lay here at night needing to pee and hoping you can get onto your crutches before you wet the bed. Or to live with the reality that you’ll never lead a group of soldiers into battle again, or win a marathon, or be a firefighter.” He rubbed his forehead. “You don’t know squat, Rachel.”
“I know you.” She tried to keep her voice steady. “Or I thought I did. The man I married wasn’t a quitter.”
“Yeah, well, he’s long gone.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“No!”
At her uncharacteristic vehemence, his eyebrows rose . . . and her heart stumbled.
What on earth had prompted her heated—almost belligerent—rebuttal?
Until now, she’d absorbed all the verbal abuse he’d dished out, pussyfooting around the hard issues, giving him space to deal with anger and grief over his loss, afraid that if she took a hard stand, she’d further damage his delicate psyche.
Yet the kid-gloves treatment hadn’t worked—and she was sick to death of being patient.
Apparently some of the advice she’d picked up while scouring the internet for guidance had sunk in.
And with their relationship deteriorating anyway, what did she have to lose by taking a harder-line approach?
Steeling herself, she marched over to the bed. “I have a few things to say.”
“Then sit down so we’re on the same level.”
“No. You stand up.”
A muscle spasmed in his jaw. “I need my stuff.” He gestured to the corner.
“How did it get over there?”
He glowered at her in stony silence.
But no response was necessary.
They both knew the answer to that question.
Instead of retrieving his prosthesis as she would have in the past, she strode to the small side chair in the corner, picked it up, and placed it in front of him. Once seated, she twisted her fingers together, hoping she wasn’t about to make a big mistake.
“For the past eight months, I’ve watched you struggle to accept the new reality—and I’m not seeing any progress. I’ve listened to you complain, endured your bad moods, let you vent your anger and hostility and resentment on me. Well, I’m done. Things need to change around here. We’re supposed to be partners in this marriage, for better or worse, in sickness and in health. I’m trying to keep my end of that bargain. You need to keep yours.”
His features hardened. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“No, you’re not.”
A spark of anger ignited in his eyes. “What gives you the right to make that judgment?”
“I know you. I’ve seen how hard you can work and how goal-driven you can be. If you applied the same single-minded focus to rebuilding your life that you used to woo me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Our life might be different than we planned, but it would be good . . . and happy.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You have both legs. There’s nothing holding you back from doing anything you want to do.”
“There’s nothing holding you back, either—except anger. You need to get over it and move on.”
“To what? All I ever wanted to be was a firefighter like my dad and brother. No chief is going to hire a man with a fake leg.” He threw the prosthesis a venomous look.
She wasn’t going to dispute reality. Facts were facts.
“There are hundreds of other jobs that don’t require two perfect legs.”
“Firefighting is in my blood. It’s been my goal since I was a kid.”
“Goals can change. I have a variety of interests. You must too. Pick a new field and pursue it. You have two years of junior college—go back to school and get a bachelor’s degree.”
“I’m not college material. And who’s going to support us? You?”
“The VA is covering most of our expenses. My job is nothing more than a supplement.”
“I didn’t sign up to be a parasite.”
“Then what’s the plan? Are you going to mope around for the rest of your life?”
“I might.”
She let a few beats pass while she gathered up her courage.
“Then you’re going to do it alone.”
At her firm, quiet statement, Greg froze. “You’re leaving?”
“That’s up to you.” She stood, returned the chair to its place, and walked to the door, her legs quivering as she angled back to him. “I still love you, Greg. You—not your leg. And I’ll help you in any productive way I can. But the next move has to come from you.”
For one tiny second, she hesitated. His prosthesis was across the room, in the corner. Retrieving it would be a struggle for him while maneuvering on crutches.
But he’d caused that problem himself . . . and cleaning up avoidable messes for him wasn’t productive.
It was enabling.
Shoring up her resolve, she turned, left the room—and kept walking until she reached her car.
After she slid into the driver’s seat, her trembling fingers fumbled three attempts to insert the key.
Once she succeeded, she expelled an unsteady breath and rested her forehead against the wheel, doubt gnawing at her already shaky
