A proud smile graced Nathan’s perfect lips when he appeared in the kitchen, effectively ending the conversation with my mother. I returned his smile, my silent thanks for his interference.
Kathy strode out of the kitchen, mumbling something about rewriting history and bumping Nathan’s shoulder as she passed him.
“You are amazing,” he said.
I turned back to the food. “You’re getting this dinner whether you compliment me or not.”
“Yeah?”
“Its temperature might change based on the compliments though.” I tossed him a cheeky grin over my shoulder.
Nathan closed the distance between us, wrapping his arms around my waist, fusing my back to his front. “In that case,” he said, his voice low, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. “Have I told you how gorgeous you look today? How tempted I was to push you against the house and remind you of exactly how well we fit together?”
The words made me quiver.
“Stop distracting me.” I bumped him with my ass, and he loosened his grip, taking a step back. “Or you might eat burnt spaghetti.”
“To see that blush on your cheeks? Worth it.”
I held a plate out to him, steam billowing up from the food. “Is Leo joining us?”
“Nah, he’s watching hockey with your sister.”
“Oh, I like him already. I’m surprised he flew out here with you.”
“Same. But Leo’s full of surprises. He went to my doctor’s appointment with me yesterday too.”
My heart stopped dead. “Wait—what doctor’s appointment?”
“Let me take this to Leo, then I’ll tell you about it. There’s a lot I want to talk to you about.”
Part of me wished we didn’t have to talk about the future, to save these conversations for later. Maybe date for a bit. But with our lives on separate coasts, we had to figure out whether we could move forward and how we’d manage the obstacles in our way if we did.
I didn’t need any more time with Nathan to know what I wanted.
When he got back, he settled on the opposite side of the table and dug into his dinner, taking a couple of bites while I waited on pins and needles for him to answer my question. His throat worked down a mouthful of food, and then he dropped his utensils on the plate with a clang.
“I went to an orthopedic surgeon.”
“You what?”
I’d given up trying to convince him to get his shoulder assessed. I never thought he’d accept that his arm needed intervention. Nathan didn’t like to be away from baseball, so he pushed through every injury, grinning and bearing it, regardless of what anyone said.
Apparently until now.
“You were right. I knew it the moment my arm popped at the end of last season. I have a torn labrum, and I need surgery if I want to keep playing baseball.”
“I’m sorry, Nate. Are you… in pain now?”
He shook his head, taking a sip from his beer bottle. “No, and it’s only certain motions.”
“Your pitching motion?”
Nathan laughed humorlessly. “When I pitch, it feels like someone is ripping my shoulder from my body. Not the entire time, but eventually. Rest and ice and physical therapy exercises aren’t doing shit anymore. I take the mound, and my shoulder hurts.”
The notion that Nathan’s favorite thing in the world was causing him the most pain was unfair in epic proportions. There were always people who had it worse—it was one of the things I told myself whenever my mood plummeted. Nathan and I, despite the messiness of our lives, were extremely lucky.
And yet, this twist of fate was especially cruel.
