TUESDAY TALES - "CONFIDENT" IS THE WORD PROMPT

 

Howdy! Welcome to Tuesday Tales. The word prompt this week is confident. We have another episode of the new, unpublished story, "Two of Hearts". When you've finished reading, hop on over to the other authors and read their fabulous stories. Find them HERE.  Thanks for stopping by. 

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Since she got the news of his accident, she’d been running on adrenaline, stopping to rest only for an hour or two, curled up in a chair by Stan’s hospital bed. He’d been unconscious, but she’d held his hand. Her conversation with the doctor echoed in her head.  

“I’m sorry Mrs. Hogan. I can’t tell you anything. Until he wakes up we won’t have any idea of the extent of the brain damage.”

“But he wore a helmet.”

The doctor shook his head. “If he hadn’t, he’d be dead. A helmet doesn’t completely prevent injury. I’m sorry. I wish I had better news. We have to wait and see.”

There hadn’t been time to stop and take a breath –and let things sink in –until now.   Leaning against the shower wall for support, Jen slid down, sobbing. Huge gasps escaped, shaking her. She hugged her knees hard as the water washed away the chill. Stan was her life. He had to wake up.

After a few minutes, she took two deep breaths, pushed to her feet, and turned off the water. She reached for a towel. Gripping the rack to steady herself, she retrieved the fluffy pink terry robe from the hook on the back of the door and wrapped herself in its clean softness.

Padding to the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee. Her stomach emitted hungry noises, but food didn’t appeal. She couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. Picking up the cover of a pan on the stove, she revealed the smelly remnants of the special meal she’d been making when the call came. Her conversation with Stan before the accident buzzed through her brain.

“Just one spin,” he’d said.

“I’m making a new dish. A New York Times recipe. You’re not gonna wanna miss it.”

“I never wanna miss your cooking, baby. But the ‘cycle. Hell, it’s calling me.”

“The rain stopped, but it’s still wet.”

“I’ll be careful. Promise.”

“You’d better be,” she said, shaking a fist in his face in mock anger.

He’d pulled her into his embrace and kissed her with passion.

“One spin?”

“Just one?”

“West Side Highway to the Bridge and back. That’s all. Honest,” he said, releasing her and showing her his palms.

His confidence had won her over. “Okay. Just one.”

She grimaced. The one time she could have said “no”, and made it stick, but hadn’t. He’d wiped out on a slick spot on the road. And it was her fault.  Wasn’t it?