“I want to.” He met my eyes. “You’d do the same for me.”
Was he using my words against me?
“Okay,” I said quietly.
“Okay.” He smiled, small but genuine. “We’ll get through this.”
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that eight to ten weeks would pass and I’d come back exactly as I was. That this injury wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t cost me more than just time.
But lying there in the ER bay, my foot throbbing, I didn’t know if I believed it yet.
CHAPTER SIX
Étienne
Getting Marco from the hospital lobby to my Grand Cherokee should not have been so complicated.
He was on crutches, right foot encased in a bulky non-weight-bearing boot, moving with a concentration that meant every step hurt more than he was letting on. The nurse had wheeled him out of the ER—hospital policy—but now he was trying to navigate the few steps between the wheelchair and my SUV parked at the curb on his own. I could see the strain in his jaw, the way his knuckles were white around the crutch grips.
“I’ve got you.” I slid an arm around his waist to take some of his weight.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are. That’s why you look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m not?—”
“Marco.” I tightened my grip, guiding him toward the open door. “Shut up and let me help you.”
He didn’t argue after that, which told me exactly how not-fine he was.
Getting him into the passenger seat required coordination we didn’t have. The boot didn’t fit in the footwell properly, and the crutches kept getting in the way. And by the time we’d figured out the logistics, Marco was pale and breathing hard, and I was ready to fight the entire concept of orthopedic footwear.
“Okay?” I asked once he was settled, seatbelt fastened, boot propped awkwardly against the floorboard.
“Yeah.” His eyes were closed, head back against the headrest. “This is going to be a nightmare, isn’t it?”
“Probably. But we’ll figure it out.”
The drive home was quiet. Marco dozed off somewhere around the third block, pain meds and exhaustion finally catching up to him. I checked on him at every stoplight. I made sure he was breathing okay, that he wasn’t in too much pain, that the boot wasn’t digging into anything it shouldn’t.
Why was I this worried? It was just a broken foot. People broke bones all the time. He’d heal and be back on the ice in a couple of months. There was no reason for this knot of anxiety sitting heavy in my chest, no reason I should feel like the entire world had tilted sideways the moment I’d seen him go down on that ice.
But Ididfeel it. And I didn’t understand it.
By the time we got to his townhouse, I’d already reorganized the living room in my head. Marco wouldn’t be able to manage stairs easily, which meant the couch was going to be his home base for a while. Which meant we needed to make the couch actually livable.
“Stay here,” I told him as I parked at the curb. “I’m going to set some stuff up first.”
“Étienne, I can?—”
“Stay. Here.”
I was inside before he could protest further, moving through the house with purpose. A pillow from his room. Extra blankets from his closet. Coffee table moved closer to the sectional for water, meds, phone, remote. Ice packs from the freezer. His laptop. Chargers.
I was in the middle of rearranging the furniture when I realized what I was doing—building a command center, creating a space where Marco could have everything he needed within arm’s reach without having to move.
Nesting. I was basically nesting.
