“He’s my father. I have a right to know.” I glance at Natalie, and her eyes are glued to her plate, pretending she’s not here.
“I know, honey. But you have enough on your plate. You need to focus on your recovery.”
“Is there anything you need? Anything at all?”
“We're fine, Ethan. We have everything we need. The insurance is covering most of it, and we have money in the account, thanks to you.” Her voice softens. “I don't know what we would do without you. You've done so much for this family. Your father and I are so grateful.”
My eyes drift shut. “Mom. Stop.”
“I'm just saying.”
“I know what you're saying. You don't have to say it.” I can't handle her gratitude right now. Not when I'm sitting here helpless while my father is in a hospital bed. “Just focus on Dad. Call me tomorrow. First thing.”
“I will. I love you, Ethan.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a moment. I can feel Natalie's eyes on me, but I don't look up.
“Is everything okay with Danna?” she asks quietly.
I look up. Her face is creased with concern. I suppose the fact that she met my mother would make her concerned. “My father is in the hospital. It’s an MS flare up.”
Her eyes soften with concern. “I'm sorry.”
“He'll be fine. They're discharging him tomorrow.” I pick up my fork again, avoiding her eyes. “He's had it for twelve years. We're used to the flare-ups.”
It's more than I've told anyone outside my family. Theo is the only one who knows the full picture, and that's because he caught me on the phone with my mother during a particularly bad episode three years ago.
I don't know why I'm telling her this. I don't know why I'm letting her sit in my apartment and eat dinner with me. I don’t know why I’m kind of enjoying the company.
“It must be hard being so far away when something happens,” she says.
“It's fine.”
Natalie nods and takes another bite of her food.
We finish eating, and she clears the plates. She rinses them in the sink and leaves the leftovers in the container on my counter.
“There's enough for tomorrow,” she says. “Don't order pizza.”
“You're very bossy.”
One corner of her mouth curves with a smirk that hits me a little too hard. “It's part of my charm.” She grabs her things and heads for the door. “See you tomorrow. Three o’clock. Don’t forget your floaties,” she teases, since we’re going to the pool.
I force my mouth to stay still. I refuse to smile over something as serious as my recovery. “I remember.”
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob. “Do you need a ride? I can drive us both.”
“The team assigned me a driver. He'll pick me up.”
“Okay then.” She smiles. “Try to stay off that leg until then.”
She leaves, and the apartment feels emptier than it did before.
I sit on my couch and stare at the muted TV. The highlights have moved on to a different game now.
Why did I tell her about my father?
