He looked so pathetic, she immediately opened the door wider, gesturing for him to come inside. “Yeah, I think I do, let me go check.”
He walked in and closed the door behind him, where she waved him toward the bed and told him to sit down.
“How long have you had it?” she asked, digging through her toiletry bag, looking for anything that would help.
“A few hours…though it keeps getting worse.”
She paused holding a small bottle of lotion, realizing she’d been sitting beside him in the car and hadn’t noticed. He’d been suffering silently and hadn’t said anything. She found a small bottle of Motrin in the bottom of her makeup bag, filled a glass with water, and brought them over to him.
“Here, take this,” she said, placing two pills in his hand and waiting for him to take the water.
He placed them on his tongue, threw his head back, and finished the whole glass. But he didn’t move, only sat there, his eyes still closed as though he was in immense pain.
She sat down on the bed beside him, feeling helpless and not knowing what else to do.
He cupped his forehead as though willing it to stop pounding. “Sorry to bombard you like this. I’ll leave in a second—”
“Stay as long as you need,” she interrupted. Her voice nervous—even to her own ears, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just sat there with his eyes closed, and eventually the crease in his forehead began to soften.
The sight of it made her relax. Why seeing him in pain bothered her so much she wasn’t sure, but she was anxious for him to start feeling better. She glanced down at the quilted bedspread, finding a loose thread and began wrapping it around her finger. “Honestly, I’m surprised by how not tired I am,” she muttered. Which was the truth. She’d been exhausted just the moment before, but now she had adrenaline pumping through her veins.
He grinned a little, the action softening his features and making her smile. He nodded then, tilting his head a little to the side. “Thank you.”
“For what?” She asked.
“This.”
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask him to. She looked up again, finding his eyes still closed, and a couple day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks. Though now his hair was damp, and she knew he must have taken a shower. She couldn’t pull her eyes away. They drifted over his perfect arms, to the scar on his right shoulder, where she could see it much better than she had the night before. The room was so quiet you could hear crickets chirping in the background, even the wind whistling softly outside. It was so relaxing she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering—to the night Renee and her family had left on a sudden road trip to visit Tristan. It was three years ago, yet the scar was so pink it almost looked fresh.
When she looked up again, Tristan’s eyes were on hers. She bit her inner cheek and turned in the opposite direction. “Sorry, I just don’t remember you having that scar last time I saw you.”
“That’s okay,” he said, and she turned once again to face him. His hand was now on his shoulder, cupping the scar in his palm.
“Does it still hurt?”
He shook his head, “Nah. Not really.”
She pulled her leg up to the bed and began playing with the thread again. “How did it happen?” She was surprised she wanted to know so badly. Surprised that after all these years, she’d healed enough to care.
“Let’s see…” He looked up to the ceiling, as if thinking about the memory. “It was the end of fall semester my junior year. We were on the road in Colorado and it was raining. I remember calling the play, lining up on the field, calling for the snap of the ball, and that’s about it. The next thing I remember was waking up in the dark hospital room. My arm was in some kind of traction device, and I had tubes coming out of everywhere.”
He glanced over at her and shrugged. “That was the last time I played for Texas U. I lost my scholarship, had to start over.”
Her brow furrowed, and she glanced down to his shoulder again, but now her chest was tight, and she had to clear her throat to hold back tears. “How did you manage? Having something you loved ripped away from you like that?”
He met her eyes, almost as though the question shocked him. “It was easier for me than it was for my dad, let’s put it that way.”
She closed her eyes briefly, because his answer hit way too close to home. Tristan was the pride and joy of his father… just as she was for her parents, being the only child. Personal failures felt much less personal, and so much heavier because of letting them down. She swallowed back emotion but nodded.