Page 33

The Idaho Mission

Song : Livin On Love - Alan Jackson

J on spent the night with me in the hospital, which sounds all romantic and noble until you realize it mostly involved me sweating through a paper gown, sipping lukewarm broth, and him trying not to make eye contact with my IV line.

He insisted on staying because watching me drift in and out of morphine-laced hallucinations while wheeled into the bathroom like a Victorian invalid was his idea of quality time.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I said, trying to pretend I wasn’t incredibly touched by it all.

“Oh, I know,” he said, settling into the world’s loudest recliner with the confidence of a man who had just claimed squatter’s rights.

“But where else can I sleep under a blanket big enough to cover a Chevy Suburban and be serenaded by your IV pump? ”

“Some people get roses and silk sheets. You? You get hospital-grade romance.” He held up the blanket my mom brought like it was a trophy.

“This thing is a fire hazard. I’m pretty sure I’m legally married to it now.”

I rolled my eyes and sipped my chicken broth. Or tried to. It tasted like sadness and cardboard and absolutely no actual chicken.

“Mmm. Vintage. Hints of desperation with a morphine finish.”

“Sommelier says it pairs well with a side of crushing medical debt.” We both laughed. Or I tried to—until I nearly yanked my IV out and had to clutch my side.

Jon, being the responsible adult between us, took the opportunity to eat the curried channa and roti my mom brought. I watched him devour it like it was his last meal before execution. He moaned after every bite.

“You good?” He nodded, mouth full.

“I think I just saw God.”

“If you fart in this room, I will disconnect your soul from your body,” I warned.

He wiped his hands and said, “If I die, at least let me be buried in this blanket. And with the rest of that roti.”

While I was melting into my hospital bed and trying not to fall in love with him even more than I already had (rude), he stayed productive.

Between Law Jon: Just passed a town called Turkey, Texas. Population: 421. All of them judging me.

Me: Tell them I said hi. And that my boyfriend looks like a lumberjack who runs an Etsy shop.

Jon: I’m getting you a “Welcome to Turkey” magnet. For the fridge we no longer own.

We FaceTimed that night, and he looked exhausted but victorious.

“Storage unit is locked up. The truck’s intact. Didn’t die in the snow. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Good,” I said.

“I’m starting to hallucinate Law & Order episodes that don’t exist.”

“You mean like the one where Olivia Benson becomes your maid of honor?”

“Don’t mock me. It was a beautiful ceremony.”

The next morning, like clockwork, Jon walked into my hospital room with a coffee in one hand and the same smug grin he wore the day we met at the airport. His beard was fuller. His eyes were red from the road. And somehow, he still smelled like cedar and recklessness.

“I’m back, babe,” he said.

“And I brought contraband.” He pulled out a bag of gas station beef jerky and a mini snow globe from a town called Canadian, Texas.

“Because you’re cultured.” I grinned, feeling the morphine haze lift a little.

“You’re insane.”

“You love it.” The doctor came in shortly after and gave us the best news of the week: I was officially being discharged. My body was stable. My chart had enough scribbles to fill a dissertation. And my IV stand had started leaning like it was also emotionally exhausted.

Jon all but leaped into action.

“Get the chair,” he said with the glee of a man who had waited his whole life to wheel someone out of a hospital with flair.

“Do not pop a wheelie,” I warned.

“I make no promises.”

He wheeled me down the hallway like it was prom night, nodding at nurses, dodging an overly ambitious janitor, and humming a dramatic version of the Titanic theme.

“You’re my Rose,” he whispered.

“If you let go of this chair, I swear—”

We pulled up to my mom’s front door just as the sun hit peak “Texas is trying to kill you” heat levels.

She opened the door, gave us both a once-over, and then said, “Don’t touch the thermostat.

” We made it inside. I collapsed on the couch with every pillow in the house and Nacho immediately climbed onto my legs like he, too, had been through it.

Jon settled beside me, his hand on my knee, his eyes already scanning the room for the remote.

I looked at him—my sarcastic, dusty, road-tripping man—and thought, This is what survival looks like.

Not always clean. Not always pretty. But full of effort.

Full of love. He turned to me and smirked.

“So… you wanna read me one of yo ur murder books?” I smiled.

“Only if you promise not to fall asleep before chapter five.” He winked.

“Deal. But if I have nightmares, I’m blaming you and Freida McFadden.” And just like that, we were home. Or, at least, the kind of home you build in borrowed living rooms with people who love you—even if they side-eye your instant noodle habits and threaten to take the thermostat remote.