“It’s okay if you’re not. He’s more than your best friend.”
Yes, he’s family, and I can’t do anything to help him. It’s me who put him there.
I grit my teeth, trying to push that negative thought away, but it’s there, lingering.
“I am at the hospital, Mom. Say hi to Dad.”
“I will, and hug Levi and Amelie for me.”
I’ve had several injuries over the years, but nothing bad enough to be hospitalized.
The smell of antiseptic and dread clings to my nostrils as I pass through the impersonal halls.
Amelie pushes a button on the vending machine, taking out a coffee cup.
I approach her, and she takes a small sip. “His grandparents are here.”
My sister hasn’t left his side, and I know Levi has an issue with that. He has done everything to help her be independent. Knowing him, he hates that he’s the reason she’s not going back to her bakery. I don’t need to ask her how he is, her sigh says it all.
Tears well up in her eyes. “I can’t do a thing. Seeing him so lost is a level of pain I didn’t know I could feel.”
I hug her to my chest, and we cling to each other.
“I feel guilty. I wanted him more for myself. I can’t believe I am this selfish and now…” she gulps, tears streaming down her cheeks.
A bead of cold sweat gathers at my nape. “It’s not your fault.” It’s mine.
We wait outside his private room, and she whispers, “He’s withdrawing from me.”
I can’t let him do that. Losing her would hurt him even worse. He needs to hold on. It will get better. It has to. My argument is weak as fuck. For guys like us, football is all we know.
“Just give him more time. You know he loves you,” I say, pacing as if I could outwalk the turmoil.
She offers a tiny nod and chips at the plastic cup. “He told me I should go back to Seattle, tend to the bakery. As if I could.”
“He doesn’t want to burden you.”
She rolls her eyes, mumbling, “He’s lucky he’s in the hospital or I would have lost it.”
Our conversation halts when his grandparents walk out, a despondent look slipping over their features. Greeting each other, we talk for a bit.
Inside his room, I face the same image that unbalances me. Him lying in a hospital bed, leg trapped in that unyielding cast. But there’s a minor change in his apathetic features. His facial features strain, his face might crack.
“Hi, man,” I give, gauging his mood.
“Hi.” Short, clipped, not helpful.
“Don’t push Amelie away. You lost football, you don’t have to lose her too.”
“You don’t get it. No one fucking gets it,” he raises his voice, chest panting.
I reach his bed, but his eyes stay pinned on the wall.
“So, what are you going to do, huh?”
“I don’t fucking know. I don’t want to talk about it,” he grits out.
Silence follows as heavy as the dreadful diagnosis.
