His eyes roam the sterile room. It’s tiny. Depressing. Sal deserves soft sheets, a private room, a warmer gown. And flowers. A boatload of flowers. Luke wants Sal to be comfortable, but most of all he wants her to be okay.
“What do you need?” he asks. “Can I get you anything?”
“I just want to get out of here.” She leans in, conspiratorial-like. “I don’t suppose you can spring me, can you?”
Luke chuckles at the little burst of fire in Sal’s eyes. He wants her out of here too. Safe with him and back on their Tennessee farm. “Soon, I promise.”
She’s biting her lip. “And I’d ... go home with you?”
“Nashville. That’s where we live.”
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes fill. “I don’t remember you. I don’t remember any of that.”
The rawness of her voice has Luke reaching for her. He can’t help it. The temptation to touch her is too strong, too instinctual. Gently, Luke cups Sal’s pale cheek in his palm. He lets out a shaky breath at the feel of her. She feels like heaven.
Sal tenses, but only for a second, then leans into his touch.
He thumbs his finger over the lone tear trailing down her face, over the bruise on her cheekbone. He aches to wash it all away. To take away every inch of her pain.
Luke shakes his head. “Darlin’, you ain’t got to be sorry for a thing. You hear me?”
He means it. She is safe, alive, that’s all that matters. They have all the time in the world to work on her memory. If it never returns, it wouldn’t make a difference to him. She’s still the woman he married. He loves her no matter what.
She smiles through her tears. “Everything is like puzzle pieces inside my head. The memories are so short. I can’t hang on to them.”
“We’ll figure it out, Sal.”
“We will?” Her tormented eyes turn hopeful, searching out his for merciful truth.
“I swear it.”
As he reluctantly draws his hand away from her cheek, Sal’s eyes seize on something. She lets out a little gasp. “You have one too.”
Before Luke can ask what she means, her hands snatch his. His heart flares as she cups the underside of his hand. Ever so gentle, she traces the delicately sharp words on his palm with her nail. Reading the tattoo aloud, she says, “Lead to Us.”
Her eyes flash in recognition. “They match.” She flips her own hand over, splaying slender fingers, opening it to reveal her palm. Side by side, Luke and Sal’s tattoos read All the Roads Lead to Us.
“What does it mean?” She angles her head. “I always wondered.”
His heart cracks open. He takes a minute to collect himself, to voice the words Sal’s said to him so many times before.
“We always said ... no matter what happens, all roads would always lead to us.” His voice breaks and he looks down at his hand, still tangled with Sal’s. Wistfully, he adds, “That we’d find each other no matter how lost one of us got.”
When a needlephobic Luke asked Sal why she wanted the tattoo on the palm, one of the most painful places on the body, she replied, “So I can always hold it and feel the weight of what you mean to me.”
“Hmm.” A contemplative smile graces her face. “I like that.”
Her confused eyes have turned curious. To Luke it feels like hope.
Sal’s still in there. Somewhere.
“How long have we been married?” she asks.
“Eight years,” Luke says. “But we’ve been together since you were twenty.”
The news surprises her. “How old am I?”
“You’ll be thirty-two in July.”