Things that were true but I could never say out loud.
Things that would ruin the friendship we had.
But Étienne watched me with a stubborn set to his shoulders, and I knew he wouldn’t leave for practice until I agreed. So I nodded.
“You need to use the bathroom before I go?”
The question should have been embarrassing. Should have felt like too much, like crossing some unspoken boundary between friends. Instead, I just shook my head. “No, I’m good.”
“You’re sure? Because it’s going to be a few hours?—”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.” He seemed satisfied enough to grab his bag and head out.
“Call if you need anything,” he said from the doorway. “Anything at all.”
“I’ll be fine for three hours.”
“I mean it, Marco.”
“I know you do.”
After he left, the house felt too quiet. Too empty. Which was ridiculous because I’d lived alone for years before Étienne had moved in. I enjoyed solitude, the freedom of not having to hide who I was. I should have been comfortable with the silence.
Instead, I felt his absence like a physical thing.
I lasted maybe twenty-five minutes before the pain drove me to take the medication. Swallowed the pill dry because opening a fresh bottle of water felt like too much effort, then settled back against the pillows to wait for it to kick in.
My phone rang just as the edges of my world started to go soft and fuzzy. I grabbed it off the coffee table.
My mother. Of course.
“Hi, Mama,” I said, and even to my own ears, my voice sounded strange. Distant.
“Marco! Finally! I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been calling you for days. I saw the game—I saw you get hurt. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”
Because I’d been in the ER, then medicated, then too busy trying not to reveal myself to Étienne to think about calling home.
“It’s only been like twelve hours, Mama. It happened fast and I haven’t had a chance to call or answer my phone. I’m fine. It’s just a broken foot.”
“A broken foot! Marco Antonio Morelli, I am your mother. I worry about you. I?—”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. It’s been a lot.”
“I’m getting on a plane. Today. I’ll take care of you.”
Every muscle in my body tensed despite the medication trying to relax me. “Mama, no. You don’t need to do that.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have a broken foot. You can’t take care of yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. Étienne’s here.”
“Your teammate? That’s nice,caro, but you need family, you need minestrone soup, you need?—”
“He’s taking good care of me. He’s got it covered.” The words came out firmer than I meant them to, probably because the pain meds were stripping away my ability to perform the dutiful son. “Really. I don’t need you to come.”
The silence on the other end was loaded.
