Becca, to her credit, does not say obviously or that makes sense or men are trash.
She just says, “Did Tristan send anything?”
I hate how much that question stings.
I glance at my phone on the bed beside me.
Three texts.
All from him.
You home?
Need anything?
How’s the pain?
No flowers.
No grand gesture.
No handwritten card in dark ink.
Just direct concern.
Practical concern.
Athlete concern.
And a warm kiss that turned his cheeks pink after—probably with guilt.
It should feel more real.
And yet—I look back down at the roses.
At the absurdity of them.
The softness of the bears.
The note folded in my hand like something warm.
“You don’t have to answer,” Becca says gently.
I exhale through my nose.
Too late.
I’m already answering it in my own head.
Tristan stayed at the hospital.
Drew sent roses.
Which one means more?
The question is ugly enough to make me furious at myself.
So I do what all emotionally compromised girls do when cornered by conflicting male behavior and an injury—I choose denial with excellent posture.
