I hugged him harder.
He dropped a kiss on top of my head. “The fear isn’t going away, or getting any better. If anything, I’m worried it’s getting worse. I don’t want to be crippled by anxiety-induced procrastination. I can’t live like I have been, trapped in ignorance. That’s not a healthy place for me to be. Not while battling depression. The only way to move forward is to actually know once and for all what my future might look like.”
I didn’t tell him it was going to be okay. Because it might not be. I didn’t validate his fear or worry. He was intelligent, and more in tune with his emotions than most men I knew. Plus, he had a therapist who had probably done a way better job of helping him unpack all these feelings than I ever could. I also didn’t offer to go with him, though I wanted to. We’d only been friends for weeks. We’d only been lovers for days. My tagging along would be selfish, filling my own desire to be there for him. And if we were photographed together? The paparazzi might go nuts. I could be identified, and then his cover here would be blown.
Instead, I said the only thing that seemed like it fit. “Whatever you need, I’m here. To watch the puppies or clean the house or just to be there for deliveries. Seriously, anything, Ben.”
His arms tightened around me. “Thank you. I already asked Jack to watch the dogs and look after the house. But I’ll let him know you’re available for backup.”
A question jumped to the tip of my tongue. I pulled away and looked up at him. I wanted to read his features, to gauge whether or not I pushed him too far on this, so I could stop before upsetting him any further. God only knew how stressed he must be on top of the fear, and I didn’t want to force him to talk about this if it made it worse.
“What tests are you having done?” I asked.
The wind caught a strand of my hair, blowing it in front of my face. He tucked it behind my ear before answering. “Some of them are pretty new. Like, not approved by the FDA new.”
“Are they safe?”
He nodded. “As safe as any of the others. For one of them, I’m not the first stage of their human guinea pigs. My results will add to the two dozen military vets and ex-USFL players they’ve already tested.”
“How is it different from the MRIs and cognitive tests?”
“They inject you with a molecular tracer that bonds with the abnormal proteins that lead to CTE and then scan your brain. It’s the one that shows the most promise, because they also scanned the brains of people with Alzheimer’s and noticed an actual difference between the two.”
“Are you having the others done too?”
“Yeah. I’ll be gone for a few days at least.”
His expression tightened as he lifted his gaze and looked out at the dogs.
My own fear crept in as I stared up at him. He might have CTE. This big, strong, caring man might one day be brought low by a degenerative brain disease. His depression might get worse. He could end up with mood swings. Memory loss.
The thought made me want to break down sobbing. I pulled free and turned away from him before he could see it on my face. He was already afraid. No need to add my terror to his.
“Fred, what are you even doing?” I called, thankful for the distraction of the dogs.
Fred held a frisbee in his mouth, just over Boots’ head. Whenever the puppy jumped up to bite it, Fred moved it just out of reach. Like he was teasing him.
“I swear they’re like human kids sometimes,” I said, marching through the snow toward them. “Give me that, you jerk.” I took the frisbee from him and chucked it across the yard.
We stayed outside for several minutes, playing with the dogs, not speaking, distracted by our thoughts, the air between us heavy with unspoken words.
I led him inside when the puppies started to flag. We dried the dogs, stripped off our winter gear, and then watched as the little ones took off into my house, sniffing all the new things. Fred and Sam trailed after them in a way that made it look like they were giving a tour.
And this is where we stand when we’re waiting to be fed.
Over here, you can see our dog beds, artfully arranged.
This is where Mom keeps all of our toys.
Yes, you may play with my squeaky.
Doodle chewed on the toy with a mania that was impressive given how tired he’d looked outside. The good thing was that his little mouth wasn’t capable of squeezing it all the way, so the squeaks coming from it were both quiet and few and far between.
“Can I see that painting?” Ben asked.
“It’s back here,” I told him, leading him down the hallway.
He followed after me.
