I open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and stand there longer than necessary, letting the cold air hit my face. Myreflection stares back at me from the stainless steel—flushed, irritated, eyes too bright.
I hate that he’s back.
I hate that I noticed the brace first.
I hate that some small, traitorous part of me wonders how much pain he is still in.
Heading down the hall, I grab my stuff before closing the bathroom door, making sure to lock it.
I shower fast, scrubbing my skin like sweat is something I can wash away along with everything else. I pull on leggings and an old sweatshirt and tie my hair back again. Control restored.
By the time I make it back to the kitchen, my dinner is on the table.
Chili. Cornbread. Pops’s comfort food.
Logan sits where Cameron usually does, posture stiff, shoulders tight, like he’s waiting to be told where he’s allowed to exist. His crutches lean against the wall, close enough that he can grab them if he needs to.
I don’t acknowledge him as I sit.
Pops does. Pops always does.
“Eat,” he says, passing my bowl down like this is normal. Like Logan didn’t just drop back into my life like a fracture that never healed right.
Conversation stays light. Pops talks about a former player he ran into at the grocery store. Logan listens carefully, like every word matters. I answer when Pops asks about practice, keeping my voice even, my expressions neutral.
At one point, Pops rubs his temple, just briefly, like it’s nothing.
I notice.
I pretend I don’t.
“So,” I say abruptly, because silence makes me itch. “Rehab start time?”
Logan looks surprised I addressed him at all. “Eight.”
“Parking fills up fast,” I say. “Don’t be late.”
I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I didn’t spend hours upon hours at the hospital, sitting next to Pops during thirty-eight different rounds of chemo. Twenty-seven radiation treatments and three brain surgeries, one of which took thirteen hours.
I wish I didn’t know any of it.
“I won’t,” he says quietly.
Our eyes meet for half a second, which is too long.
I look away first.
After dinner, Pops insists on doing the dishes, even though neither of us lets him. He waves us off with a scowl that doesn’t quite hide his smile.
“Go,” he says. “I’ve got this.”
Logan hesitates like he wants to argue, then doesn’t. He follows me down the hall, his steps careful, measured. I hate that I hear it. Hate that my brain catalogs how much slower he moves now.
Halfway to my room, I stop. He freezes behind me.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.”
