Make You Love Me

JORDAN

Everyone, at some point in their life, will be slapped in the face by the same unapologetic reality—we’re not infallible, bad things happen to good people, and we aren’t allowed a say when our time is up.

This is that moment for me.

A warm fluid streams into my eyes, but with my arms pinned under a web of metal, I can’t wipe it away. Slashes on the side of my head burn and pulse with every labored heartbeat. It’s all I can feel. Most of my body is numb, only a few random tingles in my thighs and back confirm my fate hasn’t yet been sealed. I refuse to go out like this. Not before I’ve had a chance to live.

Panic grips my lungs before the smoke, and I’m suffocating in the thick plume laced with the smell of oil and gasoline, clouding the cabin. That could only mean one thing…the bomb inside my metal coffin has been activated. Maybe there’s no hope for me after all.

The irony of this is not lost on me. Although I managed to escape the explosion that claimed the lives of most of my former unit years ago, it appears to have caught up with me. It’s not an enemy ambush this time around, but this feels all too familiar—unpredictable, indefensible, criminal, tragic. Maybe one’s fate can’t be skirted by dumb luck more than once.

When I bought my teenage dream car—a 1965 two-door, poppy red Mustang with an automatic V-8 and white vinyl seats—I thought I had the rest of my life ahead of me. The seller, a gray-haired grandmother, purging her late husband’s belongings to pay for the European cruise he refused to take her on over their forty-plus-year marriage, had different circumstances, but she and I faced the same pivotal life moment: the conclusion of years spent serving others and prioritizing everyone but ourselves. Now, freedom granted us the opportunity to shape our lives according to our own choices and wishes. And my list of things to accomplish is long.

Yesterday, Sergeant Montgomery handed over my discharge papers, and the first thing I did was purchase my dream car. The same one that a scrap yard would now reject. After being struck, rolled, and skidded to a stop against a light pole, it’s as useless to anyone as a smoked cigarette.

Damn it. I loved this car. The asshole who hit me had to be going close to sixty. Like any responsible driver, I was following the law and running just two miles over the thirty-five mile per hour speed limit on the way to celebrate my first official day as a civilian. My destination—McDonough’s Irish Pub in downtown Richmond, Virginia, only a few blocks away from where my beautiful car is now pinned to a pole.

I should be trying to figure a way out before the engine goes up in flames, but all I can think about is how pissed my sister will be when she finds out.

If I am hell-bent on buying a car, my sister said the day I signed the certified check, at least buy something safer. I understand her concern. We lost both our parents back in high school to a horrific crash not too different from this one, and since then, she refuses to drive, begging me on a regular basis not to either. Until yesterday, it’s been easy to honor her wishes.

In the military, there was usually someone else with the keys—higher-ranked or trained personnel for Humvees, helicopters, and tactical vehicles. Rarely did I have a choice in the matter, and I didn’t mind. But after eight years of following orders and doing anything my unit and country required, I wanted the freedom a running motor and four wheels provided. I wanted the damn keys.

Funny how one decision, one moment can bring all your plans to a screeching halt. And if I don’t survive this, my sister will hate me for the rest of her life.

_____

“Jordan!”

Remember that tube feature on playgrounds where you speak into one end and the person on the other end, yards away, can hear you? That’s what my name sounds like. A distant, hollow version of the person’s voice traveling through a metal pipe to my ears.

“Jordan, can you hear me?”

I can…barely, I want to say…but I…

“Jordan, it’s me, Hayes.”

I startle back to consciousness. Who? Sergeant? Why is he here? Where am I?

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

Ambulance? What hap—Oh, God. The crash. I’m still alive, somehow. But for how long?

“Jordan, stay with me, buddy.”

I want to, but it’s not that easy. I can’t see anything. Feel anything. I’m covered in something slick and sticky, and I’m afraid it’s blood. All my blood by the sheer amount of it coating my skin and clothes.

“Tell my sister…I love her…and I’m sorry.”

_____

“Until when?” I hear a strained male voice ask.

“Until he’s stable. He’s had multiple significant surgeries and lost a lot of blood.” The second male, firm in his delivery, doesn’t sound quite as tired. He sounds more like the military doctors I’ve encountered while serving—half drill instructor, half lifesaver, matter of fact approach, unimpressed tone, no sugar-coating.

“Has anyone called his sister?”

Josie? The beeping sound coming from the machine to my right picks up speed with that little doozie of a question.

“Yes,” the second man says. “She’s on her way. Should be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? It doesn’t take that long to get here from New York. She too busy to be bothered?”

No. She just hates cars.

“Apparently, she’s taking the train.”

Ha. Sounds like her. Dire emergency? No problem. One ticket for the slowest possible transportation, please.

“The train? You’ve got to be shittin’ me.”

Ahh. Sergeant Montgomery. Should have recognized that broody magnificence from the years I spent hearing it day and night. The man’s resumé for Jordan Jones rescues is both extensive and impressive. But even after adding this instance to the column of relevant hero experience, the list pales in comparison to the fifteen years he’s dedicated in service to his country.

“I could have picked her up and brought her back quicker than that,” Sergeant Montgomery continues, his trademark crankiness at an all-time high.

“Still can,” the second man deadpans. I can only assume he’s the doctor on call with the unfortunate duty of dealing with my self-appointed security guard.

Sergeant lets out a long sigh and stalks across the room, his rubber-soled boots sounding more like steel on the soft linoleum floor with each sharp step.

I’d love to measure the deep line between his eyes to know just how serious my situation is. But I can’t open my eyes or there’s something covering them, keeping me in the dark. I’m glad my ears are working, though, even if there is an annoying ringing sound accompanying the world around me. Maybe I’ll also be able to move or speak soon to let everyone know I’m still me inside this shell of a body. Since I can’t, at least the incessant beeping on the heart monitor is enough to tell them and me that I’m alive.

“I don’t want to leave him.” Another sigh from Sergeant. “I’ll stay until she arrives.”

Oh, shit. If I could, I’d beg Sergeant not to leave me here alone with her. At least until she calms down, and I can defend myself. Josie is the only family I have left, and although she’s only two years older, she sure acts like a fiery mother hen when someone or something threatens my wellbeing.

It took over a month to convince her that my joining the military would be a good thing…not a death sentence. That I’d have an entire unit of brothers to fill in for her while we were apart. She even came with me to talk to the recruiter to see for herself. God, she’s the best. She loves like no one else, and I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her.

But I’m not looking forward to the lecture she’s surely crafting on the way here. I already know what she’s going to say. Cars are dangerous. She doesn’t trust me with a golf cart, much less a bullet on wheels with 1960s technology and safety standards. I’m too reckless, too trusting, too fearless.

So, yeah. I’ll be hearing plenty about all the dangers of the world and how my shortcomings exacerbate them all. I just hope I’ve slipped back into unconsciousness before she gets here.

_____

Something’s wrong. It’s as if I’m lying on a bed of smoldering embers, my skin blending into the fiery heat. My screams are silent, lost in the inferno. When I force my eyes open, there’s only a void that swallows everything. Flames overwhelm my senses, reducing me to ashes carried away by the wind.

_____

“I don’t know what to do. After this last episode, I’m barely hanging on.” Josie’s voice is muffled by the ringing in my ears, but I can hear her. Is she here? Why isn’t she in New York? Where am I?

I open my eyes to darkness, except there’s a small light on my left. It moves as no light should and a glow trail shines after it like a shooting star. I blink hard to clear my vision and the glow disappears. The outline of her face appears. She’s holding a cellphone in front of her, knees pulled up to her chest.

“I’ve started looking for an apartment. Mom and Dad’s house isn’t livable.” She pauses, listening through earbuds to the other person. Is she moving to Virginia? Why is she renting an apartment here?

“No. Jordan wanted to fix it up and maybe he will one day.” Her voice sounds unsure, hoarse, and weary, and I wonder why. She’s always so cheerful—the quintessential, carefree artist who can see the good in everything. She’s pure, unbridled sunshine in a tiny package. The same feeling you get from looking at her paintings. But she’s none of those things at this moment.

“Yeah, right,” she says, and her scoff keeps my eyelids from closing. She’s pissed, and it’s not my fault this time. Well, at least until she realizes I’m eavesdropping. She mentions the asshole she lives with, and it all comes together.

“Ryder wouldn’t know a hammer from a screwdriver if his life depended on it. But it doesn’t matter, we broke up.”

Hallelujah.

“Or rather, he said my choices were bringing him down, and he wanted his freedom back.”

Ass.

“Yeah. He enjoyed throwing his infidelity in my face. I hate what brought me home, but I’m grateful for the excuse to leave. I’m better off without him. We were too different for it to work.”

More like she’s too good for him.

“He never loved me. Just loved how I looked on his arm and felt in his bed.”

Okay. I’ve heard enough. “Jo Jo?”

“Oh, my god.” Her phone rattles on the floor as the vinyl couch cushions squeak. She’s next to me in seconds and flips on a light above us. “Jordan, I’m here.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?” The whites of her eyes are bloodshot, her skin splotchy. Josie will cry at anything that moves her, upsets her, frustrates her, or scares her. I know her signs and see them all in her now.

“What’s wrong?”

“Jordan, sweetie.” She sniffs and sits next to me. “You’re in the hospital. Don’t you remember?”

My eyes cut to the right to see more stark white walls, a TV, a sink, and several life-monitoring machines. No. I don’t fucking remember. My heart rate spikes as I try to think back, and the beeping monitor next to me picks up speed.

“What happened to me?”

“Let me get the doctor.” She moves off the bed, and I grab her wrist to stop her.

“No. Tell me what happened.”

“I will. I promise,” she says to pacify me. It doesn’t work. “Let me tell them you’re awake first.”

“Why?”

“Jordan, you’ve been in and out of a coma for two weeks. Your doctors need to know you’re awake and communicating.” She leans close to press a kiss to my damp forehead, and I hear a click.

Damn her.

She sits back on the mattress, the alert button in her hand. “I’m so happy to see those beautiful eyes of yours again. You had us so worried.”

“Jo, I—”

Two nurses rush into the room and start checking my vitals. I want to scream for them to get out, but their kind, empathetic smiles shut me up. After all, I feel fine. Well, other than my bones aching like they were pushed through a shredder and my head pounding at a nauseating pace, I…feel…fine.

The heart monitor’s pace switches from rhythmic to erratic as my vision blurs. I hear echoes of tools being dropped onto a metal tray, footsteps running in all directions, and frantic voices. Someone yells my name before it all goes silent.

_____

“Good news,” Josie says, but with the siren going off in my ears, I can’t tell if she’s talking to me. I open my eyes and roll my head until I find her on the couch again, talking to someone on the phone—her best friend Grant, most likely.

It’s daytime, and she’s wearing her usual patterned leggings that don’t match her oversized sweater, which, of course, is hanging off her slender shoulder. Her feet are bare. I swear the woman hates shoes. And her wavy blonde hair is wild, tied into a loose bun on the top of her head. She reminds me of Mom when Josie and I were in elementary school, my most vivid memory of her.

“He’s still hanging on,” she continues. “Guess it really is impossible to kill a Marine.” She chuckles at her joke, but it’s not her authentic laugh. The real one could short circuit light bulbs.

Wait. Did she say kill? Did someone try to murder me? I dreamed recently of a car crash. Of metal crushing my body until I passed out. It felt too real, too vivid, for a dream. But that could be from all the medication flowing through my veins.

“Not until he can stay conscious for more than a few minutes. All day, preferably. He’s got a long road of rehab ahead of him.”

She twirls a curl of hair around her finger as she listens. “Not sure. I bought a few paint supplies last week and have some commissions lined up. Everything I own is in New York.” Another pause. “That would be great, but I can’t ask you to do that…Are you sure? Looks like we’ll be here a while, so anytime that works for you. I don’t have a lot. Just clothes and art supplies. Ryder furnished the flat…I hate dumping this on you…But it will be nice to see you and show you around Richmond…You should reserve a hotel room, though. The apartment I rented is a one bedroom and not exactly the Fifth Avenue standards you’re accustomed to…Thank you, Grant. Try not to go all RuPaul on Ryder. He can’t help who he is…I know. I can’t and won’t stop you. Just watch your back…You’re the best. You know that, right?”

I don’t make eavesdropping on my sister’s conversations a habit, but since I have no idea what’s going on, I need every clue I can get. The main thing I want to know, besides the name of my would-be murderer, is where the hell is my girlfriend? Does Nora not know what happened to me? Wouldn’t she be worried that I’ve gone missing for weeks? Getting back to normal would be easier if I could hear her voice, look into her beautiful brown eyes, and feel her body against mine.

“Where’s my phone?” I mutter, probably not as loud as it sounds in my foggy head since Josie doesn’t budge. Determined, I push up onto the elbow not restricted by a sling, ripping the oxygen tube off my face. Flashes of light blind me, as does the pain in my abdomen and shoulder. Acid in my empty stomach rises into my throat.

“Jordan! What are you doing?”

Reading my face, she grabs a trash can along the way to me and holds it under my chin. I hurl my insides into it, but there isn’t much since I can’t remember the last time I ate.

“Are you crazy?” she exclaims, her voice sharp, as she reaches for the call button attached to the headboard.

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I love you, but I swear. If you touch that button, I won’t speak to you for a month.”

“Well, that’s nothing new. It’ll just be like the last few weeks.” She holds up the button, taunting me with it. “I’m liking the quiet. Helps me paint.”

“Shut up.” I swallow the razor blades in my throat and beg whoever is using my ribs as a punching bag to take a break.

“What possessed you to do that?” she asks, helping me lie back onto the pillows.

“I want to call Nora.”

“What for?” Reaching over me, she returns the button to its perch.

“She’s probably wondering what’s going on.” But then again, I don’t know what I’d tell her since no one’s told me.

“You need to focus on getting better right now. Stop blacking out all the time.”

“Not my choice.”

“I know.”

I resign to bribing a nurse for my phone later when Josie leaves me be for a few minutes. She’s not a fan of Nora, given our history, but things are different now.