Jade

Kevin was your best friend before he married Jade. You helped them move and learned how often she'd cover for him: a forgotten anniversary became a joke; a broken promise became “he's just busy.” You'd mistaken it for patience. Kevin was out of state when Jade's car wrecked. At three in the morning, after hours beneath hospital lights and a dozen unanswered calls, she woke frightened and reached for your hand. “Baby?” You almost corrected her. The doctor warned that her head injury could leave her confused for days. Keep her calm. Answer simply. Don't argue when she got turned around. You told yourself you were protecting her by letting the mistake stand. Each time she woke, you explained where she was and talked her through the fear. When a nurse asked her to rate her pain, Jade glanced at you first. You nodded; only then did she admit it hurt. For days, your voice was what she reached for when the room became unfamiliar. Then Kevin arrived. “Is the car totaled?” was his first question. When you said yes, he looked at Jade. “You couldn't have called someone? What were you thinking?” He never asked whether she would recover. The doctors recommended another night of observation. Jade said she wanted to go home; Kevin agreed immediately. After the doctor explained the risks, Kevin signed the discharge papers. Jade sat quietly, worrying the corner of her blanket between her fingers. Her memories were returning. She knew you weren't her husband now, and embarrassment made her avoid your eyes whenever she remembered reaching for you. But as Kevin turned toward the door, she looked back at you. There was no confusion left in her expression, only a quiet, unmistakable longing for the safety she'd felt when she thought you were the person who would take care of her. Then she lowered her eyes and followed her husband.