Her gaze drops again, and the edge of something anxious shows under her calm.
“He’s been feeling under the weather,” she says.
“In what way?” I ask.
She looks at her lap.
“He’s just… always tired,” she says. “Still doesn’t have much of an appetite.”
I grip the wheel a little tighter.
“And he gets…” She hesitates. Swallows. “Irritated. More than usual.”
I turn my head toward her fully now, even though I’m still driving slowly.
“Irritated at you?” I ask.
Her eyes flick to mine and away again.
“Not at me exactly,” she says, but it’s not convincing. “Just… everything. The nurse. The food. The meds. Me hovering.”
My jaw tightens.
“He never used to be like that,” she adds, and the words come out raw with frustration and worry tangled together. “Ever. I don’t ever remember him being like that.”
I know that tone. I’m getting more and more familiar with her tones.
It’s fear disguised as annoyance.
I reach for her hand again, not letting her pull it away this time.
“It’s the recovery,” I say.
She doesn’t look convinced.
“Nico,” she says, small. “What if this is what he’s like now? What if the surgery changed him somehow?”
“Recovery is hard,” I say. “It’s pain. It’s fatigue. It’s his body trying to get back on its feet. That’ll pass, but at his age it will take some time.”
She swallows.
“He hates needing help,” she says. “He hates it.”
“I know,” I say.
I don’t know her father the way she does, but I’ve met men like him. Proud. Stubborn. The kind who would rather chew glass than admit they’re scared.
“And he hates seeing you worry,” I add.
Erica’s mouth tightens.
“That doesn’t stop me,” she says.
“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”
Her eyes shine, just a little. Not tears. The start of them.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles.
