Page 72 of The Loves We Lost

I reach for him, but he raises a hand. “Don’t want ... Avery ... to see me ... this bad.”

“Let me call my neighbor to see if they can take Avery. Would that be okay?”

“Not sure ... I can move, anyway,” he grumbles.

“I’ll be right back.”

I call my mom group friend Jenny as I run to the car to get Avery. When she answers, I rush the request and, hearing my tone, Jenny agrees to take her for a few hours and agrees without question to keep her in the house for safety.

As calmly as I can, I approach Avery. “Hey, pumpkin. Daddy has a bit of a boo-boo, and I need to help him clean it up. I asked Jenny if you could go play with Aidan for a little while.”

Avery looks down the street where Jenny is approaching from, but then back over at her dad’s bike.

“But I want to see Daddy.”

“I know, and he really wants to see you. But let me clean him up a little, and then you can come home after dinner and see him. I won’t let him leave.” The truth is, I don’t think Miles will be going anywhere for days, let alone hours.

Avery eyes me with caution. “You pinky promise?”

We link our pinky fingers. “I promise.”

This seems to pacify Avery, who gets out of the car and hurries down the street to Jenny, who waves.

I run back to the side of the house and find Miles with his eyes closed again. “Hey,” I say softly. “Let’s get you up.”

“This is going to be fun,” he mutters without opening them. “Can barely see shit. Although there’s ... three of you. More of you is good.”

I try to ignore his words, but it’s hard when my heart wants to believe the sentiment. Between the two of us, we wrestle Miles to his very unsteady feet, and I slide beneath his arm to take some of his weight. “You’ll take us both down if you fall, so please don’t.”

“I’ll do my best, buttercup.”

It’s a grind to get him up the steps to the front door and into the house. Once there, I’m not entirely sure where to put him. “Is sitting or lying down better?”

“Shower,” he mutters. “Gonna need ... help.”

I start walking toward the bathroom, then stop. “What?”

“Help,” he grumbles. “Get my clothes off. Wash these.” He holds up the nasty-looking slices on his arms.

“Fine. But don’t get any ideas.”

Miles huffs, a small puff of sarcastic laughter. “Babe, the only idea ... I have is ... not dying or crying.”

Blood drips from somewhere onto the floor. “Come on.”

Getting his clothes off is tough. Leather and zippers and fabric scrape against wounds. And true to his word, while he’s naked, there is no sign of an erection. Miles tries to be stoic, but raising his arms is an impossibility. I almost choke him trying to get the T-shirt off.

“Ribs,” he says through gritted teeth.

Thankfully, due to my grandfather’s mobility issues, they had a wet room bathroom with a drain in the center of the showerarea. It’s ugly and utilitarian. Usually I hate it, but today I’m grateful I don’t have to help him climb into a tub or squeeze into a small shower cubicle.

When he’s finally naked, he leans back against the unit that holds the sink and drops his head. Two drips hit the ground, and at first, I assume it’s blood from some of the open wounds, but then I realize it’s tears.

“Miles, no, sweetheart.” I stand in front of him and gently nudge his forehead to my shoulder and place my arms around him. “Hey, it’s okay. I’ll wash you, and we’ll get you patched up, and then I’ll nurse you back to health. I’ve got soup. Wait, I don’t know if soup is relevant in such hot weather.”

I feel a hiccup and another huff of air. Laughter? A sob. “Vi.”

“We can fix you,” I say. And without thinking further, I strip off my clothes, dumping them on the counter, before turning on the water, my hand beneath the spray until it heats up.