This Man Confessed (42 page)

He heaves his tall body up from the floor and turns foggy green, tormented eyes on me. “I’m so so sorry.” His chin is trembling as he starts to walk to me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I assure him. “Nothing matters.” I hold my arms out to him, desperate for him to know that I accept him and his history, no matter how shocking and dark it might be. A sense of serenity travels between our bodies, like a silent, mutual understanding as I wait for him to get to me.

My impatience is growing. He’s taking too long, seeming to get slower and slower with each step he takes until he collapses to his knee on a strangled gasp and clenches his stomach on a hiss. My confused eyes search his face for some clue of what’s wrong, but then he pulls his jacket back, revealing a blood-soaked shirt and the knife submerged in his side.

“No!” I scream, finding my feet and rushing to his side. My hand hovers over the handle of the knife, not knowing what to do. “Oh God! Jesse!” He falls back, choking, his palm patting at his wound around the blade. “Oh God, no no no no no. Please no!”

I collapse to my knees, all searing pain in my stomach and across my face being shifted straight to my chest. I’m struggling to breathe. I pull his head up onto my lap and madly stroke his face. His greens are getting heavy. “Don’t close your eyes, Jesse,” I shout, frenzied. “Baby, keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

He drags them open, the effort clear. He’s panting, trying to get words out, but I shush him, resting my lips on his forehead, crying hysterically. “Ava…”

“Shhh.” I gain a second of rationality and start riffling through the inside pocket of his jacket, quickly locating his phone. It takes three scrambled attempts to key in the same digit three times, and then I’m screaming down the phone, shouting instructions and begging the woman on the other end to hurry. She tries to calm me down. She tries to give me instructions, but I can’t hear her. I hang up, too distracted by Jesse’s paling face. He looks gray, his body is completely limp, and his dry lips are parted, wheezing in shallow breaths. His labored breathing doesn’t blank out the eerie silence surrounding us, though.

“Jesse, open your eyes!” I yell. “Don’t you dare leave me! I’ll be crazy mad if you leave me!”

“I can’t…” His body jerks as his eyes close.

“Jesse!”

He opens them again and his arm tries in vain to lift, but he gives up, letting it flop back down to the floor. I can’t stand the sound of him struggling to breathe, so I grab his phone and dial my mobile, hearing “Angel” start from a few feet away. I rock him, unable to control my sobbing. Every time my phone stops, I dial again, repeating over and over and over, the sound of his track dulling down the sound of his raspy wheezes. He’s staring blankly up at me. There’s nothing in his eyes. I search for anything, but there’s nothing.

“Unbreakable,” he murmurs, his eyes getting heavy until he loses the battle to keep them open.

“Jesse, please. Open your eyes.” I desperately try to part them. “
Open
!
” I scream the word at him, but I’m pleading to nothing.

 I’m losing him.

And I know this because my own heart is slowing, too.

I
haven’t looked into those eyes for two weeks. It’s been the longest two weeks of my life. Any notions of desolation or misery that have come before this point in my life have been trampled all over by the feelings crippling me right now. I’m lost. I’m helpless. I’m missing the most important part of me. My only comfort has come from seeing his peaceful face and feeling his warm skin.

Four days ago the doctor removed his breathing apparatus. I can see him better now, all bearded and pasty, but he refuses to wake up, even though he surprised them by breathing on his own, albeit shallow and strained. The blade sliced clean through his side, puncturing his stomach, and his lung collapsed during surgery, complicating matters. He has two perfect mars on his perfect torso now, the new one a neat slice rather than the jagged mess that she made of him the last time. I’ve watched it be re-dressed daily and watched them drain the buildup of blood and nastiness from behind the wound. I’m used to it already, the imperfection a horrid reminder of the worst day of my life, but now another part of him to love.

I’ve not once left his bedside. I’ve showered in seconds when my mum physically put me in there, but each time I’ve made her swear to scream if he stirs. He hasn’t. I’ve been told each day by the same doctor and surgeon that it’s a waiting game. He’s strong and he’s healthy, so he has the best chance, but I can’t see an improvement since they left him to breathe on his own.

Not one hour passes without me begging him to wake up. Not a minute passes without me kissing him somewhere, hoping the feel of my lips on his skin will spark something. It hasn’t. Each day my heart slows more, my eyes become sorer and my tummy is growing larger. Each time I take a split second to look down at myself, I’m reminded that my babies may never meet their father, and that is an injustice far too cruel to accept.

“Wake up,” I demand quietly, my tears beginning to roll again. “You stubborn man!” I hear the door open and turn to see my mum through my hazy vision. “Why won’t he wake up, Mum?”

She’s at my side in a second, working around my refusal to move so she can hug me. “He’s healing, darling. He needs to heal.”

“It’s been too long. I need him to wake up. I miss him.” My shoulders start to shake and my head collapses onto the bed in hopelessness.

“Oh, Ava.” My mum is despairing, feeling helpless and useless, but I can’t make anyone else feel better when I’m in desolation myself. “Ava, darling, you need to eat,” she says softly, encouraging me to lift from the bed. “Come on now.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I’m making a list of your disobediences, and I’ll be telling Jesse about each and every one of them when he comes round,” she threatens, her own voice quivering as she presents me with a light boxed salad.

The silly notion that eating will please him is the only reason I open the box with one hand and start picking at the cherry tomatoes.

“Beatrice and Henry have just arrived, darling.” Mum’s voice is wary, but I’m past the contempt I feel for Jesse’s parents. I have no room for any feelings, except grief. “Can they come in?”

I selfishly want to refuse. I want him all to myself, but I couldn’t prevent the papers from splashing the news of a stabbing all over London. News travels fast, even across Europe. They arrived two days after Jesse was admitted, his mum and sister emotional wrecks and his dad just silently looking on. I could detect the regret in his blank face, which is scarily similar to Jesse’s. I heard all of the explanations, but they didn’t really sink in. In the endless, quiet time I’ve had, just sitting here with nothing to do but cry and think, I’ve drawn my own conclusion. My conclusion is simple: Jesse’s own guilt for many tragic things that have happened in his life has pushed his parents away. They may have been a contributing factor, with their pushy ways and demands for his cooperation, but with common sense and knowing my challenging man and now everything else, too, I know his own stubbornness was what essentially caused this rift. By distancing himself from everyone who reminded him of his losses, he thought it would ease the guilt—the guilt he should never have felt in the first place. He didn’t give himself the chance to be surrounded by the people who love him and who could have helped him. He waited for me to do that.

“Ava?” My mum’s voice and shoulder rub drags me back into the room, which is too familiar to me.

“Just for a few minutes,” I agree, giving up on my salad and pushing it away. Mum doesn’t argue with me, nor does she try to negotiate more time for them. I’ve allowed them five minutes here and there, but I’ve not allowed it privately.

“Okay, darling.” She disappears from the room and a few moments later, Jesse’s mum, dad, and sister quietly enter. I don’t acknowledge them. I keep my eyes on Jesse and my mouth firmly shut as they crowd the bed. His mum starts to weep, and I see Amalie in my peripheral vision comforting her. His dad definitely brushes at his face. Three sets of eyes, all green, all glazed, and all grief stricken, are staring at my lifeless husband.

“How has he been?” Henry asks, moving around the bed.

“The same,” I answer, reaching up to brush a stray blond hair from his forehead, just in case it’s tickling him in his sleep.

“And what about you, Ava? You need to take care of yourself.” He’s speaking softly, but sternly.

“I’m fine.”

“Will you let us take you for something eat?” he asks. “Not far, just down to the hospital restaurant.”

“I’m not leaving him,” I affirm for the millionth time. Everyone has attempted and everyone has failed. “He might wake up, and I won’t be here.”

“I understand,” he soothes me. “Perhaps we can bring you something, then?”

His concern is genuine, but not wanted. “No, thank you.”

“Ava, please,” Amalie presses, but I ignore her plea and shake my head, digging my stubborn heels in. Jesse would force feed me, and I wish he could.

I hear a collective sigh, then the door opens and the night shift nurse enters, pulling the familiar trolley, loaded with a blood pressure machine, thermometer, and endless other equipment to check his stats. “Good evening.” She smiles warmly. “How is this fine specimen of a man today?” She says the exact same thing every time she starts her shift.

“He’s still asleep,” I tell her, shifting only to give her access to Jesse’s arm.

“Let’s see what’s going on.” She takes his arm and loads his bicep with the material band before pressing a few buttons and triggering the automatic inflation of the device. Leaving it to do its job, she takes his temperature then checks the printout from his heart monitor and notes down all of her findings. “Just the same. You have a strong, determined man, sweetheart.”

“I know,” I agree, praying for his continued endurance. He’s no better, but he’s no worse either, and I have to hang on to that. It’s all I have. The nurse injects some medication into the driver on his arm before changing his catheter bag and drip, then collecting her things and leaving the room quietly.

“We’ll leave you in peace,” Henry pipes up. “You have my number.”

I nod my acknowledgment and let them all attempt to rub some comfort into me, then watch as they take turns kissing Jesse, his mum going last and spilling tears on his face. “I love you, son,” she murmurs, almost like she doesn’t want me to hear, like she thinks I’ll condemn her for having the cheek. I would never. Their anguish is enough of a reason to accept them. My mission is to restore Jesse’s life to what it should be. I’ll do anything, but I don’t know if he’ll be around to accept it and appreciate it.

More tears fall.

I look up and watch them filter out, passing Kate, Sam, Drew, and John at the door. Civil hellos and good-byes are exchanged, and I can’t help the tired sigh that slips from my mouth at the arrival of more people. I know they are all just worried about Jesse and me, but the effort to answer questions when I’m asked requires energy I just don’t have.

“You good, girl?” John rumbles, and I nod, even though I’m clearly not, but it’s easier to let my head fall up and down rather than from side to side.

I look up and offer a small smile, noticing the bandage from his head has been removed. He beat himself up for days, but what could he do when Casey called him down under false pretences and caught him off guard, clouting him around the head with an iron bar as he exited the elevator?

“I’m not staying,” John continues. “I just wanted you to know that they both appeared in court today and both have been remanded.”

I should be pleased, but I can’t even find the strength for that, either. I’ve answered endless questions that have been thrown at me by the police, and Steve has been a regular, keeping me up to date on their findings. It’s quite simple. Ruth, or Lauren, is the psychotic ex-wife of Jesse, and Casey is her pussy-whipped lover, who did exactly what she asked in an attempt to please her. “Okay.” I look up, registering four more sets of eyes, all sympathetic. I’m sick of seeing it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have the ener…” My voice trails off, my spare hand reaching up to dab at my sore eyes again.

“Ava, go home, have a shower and get some sleep.” Kate pulls a chair up next to mine and drapes her arm around my shaking shoulders. “We’ll stay. If he wakes, then I’ll call you immediately. I promise.”

I shake my head. I wish they would all give up. I’m going nowhere unless Jesse is with me.

“Come on, Ava. I’ll take you,” Drew volunteers, stepping forward.

“There, see?” Sam joins the persuasion party. “We’ll stay and Drew can take you home for a while.”

“No!” I shrug Kate off. “I’m not fucking leaving, so just stop it!” I look straight to Jesse, waiting for my scorn, but nothing. “Wake up!”

“Okay,” Kate treads gently. “We’ll stop, but please eat, Ava.”

“Kate.” I sigh tiredly, trying my hardest not to lose my temper. “I’ve eaten some salad.”

“I don’t know what else to do.” She stands and steps into Sam’s arms when he opens them. Drew looks at me sorrowfully, and I’m reminded that he must be having a tough time himself at the moment, dealing with a woman who used him to try and trap my husband. I’ve heard the odd word from Kate when she’s tried to distract me with conversation, but I don’t know the full story. I do know that Drew has committed himself to the situation, though. Not to Coral, just the baby, a commendable thing to do, given how she’s deceived him.

“We’ll go,” John prompts, turning to the others and virtually pushing them from the room. I’m grateful, just managing to be courteous enough to croak a good-bye before returning all of my attention to Jesse.

My head rests back down on the bed and I fight the heaviness of my eyes for the longest time until my defiance fails me. They slowly close, sending me to a land where I’m refusing to do anything he asks me, just so he resorts to his touching tactics. I’m in a happy place, reliving every moment with this man, all of the laughter, passion, and frustrations. Every word exchanged and every touch between us is on replay through my mind. Each second, each step we’ve taken together, and each time our lips have met. I don’t miss a moment. His tall, lean body rising from his desk the first time I met him, his beauty growing with every pace he took toward me until his scent saturated me when he leaned in to kiss me. And his potent touch, which sparked the most incredible feelings within me. It’s vivid, it’s clear, and it’s blissful. From the moment I stepped into that office, I was destined to be with this man.

“My beautiful girl is dreaming.”

I don’t recognize the voice, but I know it’s him. I want to answer him, take my opportunity to tell him so many things, yet my desperation still doesn’t help me find my voice. So I settle for the lingering echo of his words and his continued touch, gently caressing my cheek.

A loud bleeping sound stuns me from my happy slumber and my head flies up hopefully, but I find his eyes are still closed and his hands are where I’ve held them—one in mine and the other draped lifelessly by his side. I’m disorientated and wincing at the screaming noise, which I soon realize is his drip, shouting that he’s out of fluids. Pulling myself up, I reach up to call the nurse, but jump when I hear a muffled moan. I don’t know why I jump; it’s low and quiet, not at all fright worthy, but my heart is racing anyway. I watch his face closely, thinking that perhaps I’ve imagined it.

But then his eyes move under his lids and my heart rate increases. “Jesse?” I whisper, dropping his hand in favor of his shoulder so I can shake him a little, which I know I shouldn’t be doing. He moans again and his legs shift under the thin cotton sheet. He’s waking up. “Jesse?” I should be calling the nurse, but I don’t. I should be shutting that machine up, but I don’t. I should be talking quietly, but I’m not. “Jesse!” I shake a little more.

“Too loud,” he complains, his voice broken and dry, his eyes going from relaxed closed to clenched closed.

I reach over him and punch the button on the machine to shut it up. “Jesse?”

“What?” he grumbles irritably, lifting his hand to clench his head. Every fear and grief-stricken emotion flows freely from my body and light engulfs me. Bright light. Hopeful light.

“Open your eyes,” I demand.

“No. It fucking hurts.”

“Oh God.” My relief is incredible, almost painful, as it courses like lightning through my depleted body, bringing me back to life. “Try,” I beg. I need to see his eyes.

He groans some more, and I can see him struggling to follow through on my unreasonable order, but I don’t relent. I need to see his eyes.

And there they are.

Not as green or addictive, but they have life in them and they are squinting, adjusting to the subtle glow of light in the room. “Fucking hell.”

I’ve never been so pleased to hear two words. It’s Jesse and it’s familiar. I stupidly dive on him, kissing his bearded face, only stopping when he hisses in pain. “Sorry!” I blurt out, pushing myself away and causing him more discomfort.

“Fucking hell, Ava.” His face screws up, his eyes closing again.

“Open your eyes!”

He does, and I’m beyond thrilled to see him scowling at me. “Then stop inflicting fucking pain on me, woman!”