Just like Aaron was there for him, he was there for Aaron. He would always be.
“Before you were born…” Marshall hesitated, distraught. The mask had fallen away—Gage saw the conflict within him, and the regret over what he’d done. “I was dying from a lung condition called idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis. After I met your father and you and your brother entered the picture, I received a double lung transplant to reverse the damage done. There is still debate in the medical community over whether it’s hereditary or not. You and your brother were born healthy, but I knew there was a chance you might be afflicted by it later in life, as it afflicted me, and that your children might be at risk, too. I’d told myself that when you were ready to settle down, I’d tell you. I didn’t want you to live your lives in fear of a condition that might not ever affect you. I’m sorry.”
“Pulmonary fibrosis?” Aaron’s voice trembled. “A double lung transplant? And Bo… Bo…”
Aaron’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Gage squeezed his hand again, tears brimming.
“Medicine has come a long way since I went through that surgery almost thirty years ago,” Marshall said. There was hope in his voice—hope they both needed. “Bo is going to receive the best care money can buy. He’s going to pull through. You were strong for him, and he’s going to be strong for you.”
They were words Gage chose to believe in.
Aaron squeezed his hand back, then shook his head and tugged Gage close to his chest. It was all it took—Gage let himself be weak. He cried, all tears and snot and ugly sobs, as the news sank in again.
Secrets had torn them apart. Secrets had threatened to destroy them. Secrets had deprived his son of early intervention and put him at risk of never pulling out of this.
But the secrets weren’t secrets anymore, and the truth, as hard as it was, promised that there was still hope.
They’d recover. They’d band together and pull out of this.
Bo would be okay.
30
Aaron
There were fragments of Aaron’s memory that fitted together in chaotic ways—pieces of his childhood that both slotted together, and didn’t. He recalled an afternoon during his childhood spent with his father, Oli, fearful of a receptionist who’d smiled at him with shark’s teeth and looked at him with evil intent. The fear bled into another scene where his fathers held each other tightly in the same lobby, like they were thankful that they’d survived long enough to be reunited, while the shark-toothed receptionist watched. It was easier to believe that those disturbing images were bad dreams blended seamlessly into his reality, but now Aaron couldn’t be so sure.
He’d been no more than five years old then—too young to understand what was going on, and too frightened to ask for clarification.
But there’d been other hints. Other indications that something wasn’t right.
They’d blended so seamlessly into his life that his mind brushed them off as unimportant.
Every day like clockwork, in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night before bed, an alarm would sound on his father’s phone. Aaron had never seen the pills while his father was in the house, but whenever they traveled, even if it was only out to the store for errands, they made their appearance.
The alarm went off. The pills were swallowed. Nothing more was said.
It had never been a big deal. The pills were a part of who his father was, just like the color of his hair, or his eyes, or the fact that whenever he made fried eggs, he always gave his yolks to Aaron and Caleb.
To find out that such a forgettable part of his father’s life had been secretly so serious unnerved him.
He’d never thought to ask.
Outside the kitchen window, cardinals sang. The sun was on its way up, waking the world to another day. Aaron adjusted the way he held Gage’s hand, then dared to look at his parents. The conversation had come to its natural conclusion, and apart from small details that would be shared in private, there was nothing more to say. Aaron was exhausted, but wired from fear.
His son was sick. What he’d believed would be something easily treatable once its root cause had been determined turned out to be much more severe.
There was nothing Aaron could do.
Nothing.
All he could do was trust that other people—outsiders—could make his boy better. It was an achingly hopeless position to be in. He’d only just learned he was a father, but in that moment of absolute fear, he knew what it meant to love like a parent loved.
An alarm. A pill. The yolk of a fried egg in exchange for a gap-toothed smile.
Aaron understood.
If, to keep Bo safe and healthy, he had to hear that same alarm multiple times a day for the rest of his life, he would do it. No matter the medical expenses, no matter the detriment to his career, and no matter the tolls it took on his mental and emotional health, he would see his son get well.
