Page 82 of Lucky 22

We spend the rest of the evening pretending everything’snormal. I have a lot of anxiety about his appointment tomorrow and what they’llfind. I’m supposed to fly back to LA next week for an audition, but if thedoctor finds something seriously wrong, I’m not going anywhere.

Just breathe…

I’m already expecting them to find something, I just don’tknow how serious it will be.

The eye doctor clears him to join the team inCincinnati.

Their big test for post-concussion syndrome? A standard eyeexam—reading letters, checking depth perception, and asking him a fewquestions, which I’m pretty sure he did not answer truthfully. I cantell he doesn’t feel well. He’s pale and wincing, and I know he’s in pain, butdid he tell the doctor that? No.

We leave the office, head home, and then I’m driving him tothe airport so he can play with the Archers tomorrow.

I’m absolutely heartbroken.

“Please, don’t do this,” I beg as we head to the airport, myvoice cracking.

“You heard the doctor, Ella Rose. I’m fine.”

“Pfft. That wasn’t an accurate exam,” I say, my frustrationmaking my voice rise. “That was a standard eye exam, Christian. You need to beseen by a specialist.”

He pats my hand. I’m sure he doesn’t mean for it to becondescending, but that’s how I take it. My head is ready to explode.

“I would think you’d be happy they didn’t find anything.That means you can stop worrying.”

“How could they find anything when they barely did an exam?”And yeah, I’m heavy on the sarcasm.

“Please, don’t be upset. I’ve got this under control, okay?It’s going to be—”

“Fine. Yeah. Got it. You’ve said it enough times that I’msure you believe it. But I don’t. And you know what? I don’t have to. You maynot want to take this seriously, but I do.”

“I am taking it seriously,” he counters calmly. “Itake my career very seriously.”

“Mm-hmm…”

“Ella Rose…”

“Look, we’ll just have to agree to disagree right now.” I’mtaking the exit for the airport, and there’s no point in continuing theargument. I don’t want to send him off angry, and personally, I don’t want tobe angry either. So, we drive to the terminal in silence. When I pull up to thecurb and put the car in park, I do my best to compose myself.

“I’ll text you when I land,” he says before leaning over andkissing me.

I want to clutch him close and beg him not to go, but itwon’t matter. I know it, and I hate it.

“Have a safe flight. I’ll talk to you tonight when you’reback at the hotel.” I kiss him again, but neither of us lingers. He gives me alopsided grin as he gets out of the car. Once the door is shut, he turns andwaves, and I watch him walk into the airport. Neither of us ever pulls awayuntil the other is out of sight.

The airport doors close, and I force myself to look away.

I cry the entire way home.

Four days later, I’m back at the airport to pickChristian up. Not because he was due to come home, but because he’s injured,and everyone’s taking it seriously.

Finally.

I’m a nervous wreck, but that’s nothing new. I’ve beenliving on pins and needles and walking on eggshells ever since he got theconcussion. But this is a fresh injury, and he needs an MRI. As soon as hewalks out of the airport, I nearly burst into tears. He’s walking slowly, likeevery step is agony, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t want to jump outof the car, take his bags, and risk embarrassing him or hurting his pride, so Iwait for him to join me so I can look him in the eyes and tell him it’s allgoing to be okay.

But I don’t know whether I believe it.

Christian gingerly gets into the car, and I can tell it evenhurts for him to smile. “Hey, beautiful. Thanks for picking me up.”

I don’t wait for him to lean over to kiss me; I’m the onemoving. I kiss him, hold his face, and will myself not to become a big, weepymess. Resting my forehead against his, I let out a shaky breath. “It’s going tobe okay,” I whisper.