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Ignoring my one syllable non-answer, he goes back to the bed and sits on the edge. His shoes and hoodie are folded on a chair against the wall, and he’s wearing socks and a ridiculous open-at-the-back gown that flashes a sliver of his ass at me. “Someone stuck their head in just now and told me my boyfriend was coming.” He says it in an expressionless, careful tone, fiddling with the remote control attached to the bed.
“Sorry,” I repeat nonsensically. “They asked, and I panicked.”
Shrugging his good shoulder, he swings his legs onto the bed and lies back, eyes half closing in exhaustion. “They did a CT scan, so I’m just waiting to see how bad it is. And if you try to lecture me, I’ll call security and tell them you’re a murderous stalker ex.”
“I’m not going to lecture you.” Grabbing a free chair, I drag it next to the bed and sit down. It’s much too small for me, plastic edges digging into the backs of my thighs. “There’s no point anyway,” I add. “You’re a lost cause who enjoys being wrong.”
His eyes flick open and he looks at me properly for the first time since our argument in the car this morning, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Is that so?”
The silence feels more comfortable now as we wait, browsing our phones without bothering to say anything else. The primal parts of me feel calmer when he’s nearby. Darius jumps a little when a nurse sticks her head around the curtain. “We have the results of your scans back, Darius, so if you could wait a little longer we’ll have a doctor in to go over them with you.”
“Sure,” he murmurs as she disappears. He stares after her, body rigid. “She didn’t look like it was good news, did she?”
“There’s no way to tell,” I reassure him, but deep down I agree. Trying not to be overbearing, I turn my attention back to my phone. I assume he does the same, but a couple of minutes later I hear a quiet sniffle. When I glance up, he’s staring at his lap, blinking rapidly. His lower lip quivers, and he bites it hard, but he can’t hold back another tiny, choked sob. I’m not even sure he likes swimming; I don’t really know anything about him besides how deeply unhappy he seems with his life. But I do know that having something taken away hurts a hell of a lot more than giving it up yourself.
His strong, tan hand rests on the bed sheet next to his hip. I reach over and slip my fingers between his, my cool palm against his warm one. Immediately his grip tightens, fingers folding through mine, squeezing tight enough to hurt. He doesn’t let go again or loosen his grip, even when the doctor comes in and gives our joined hands a curious look.
6
DARIUS
“Alright, young man,” the doctor announces kind of severely, like a disappointed grandpa. I hate the young man, especially in front of Tate, but the guy’s like sixty so I guess he has the right to call me whatever he wants. “You have multiple partial tears in your rotator cuff. They’ve been developing for a while, and trying to swim full-bore today made them much worse. You’re going to need physical therapy and a lot of time off from competitive swimming. Make an appointment as soon as you get back to Seattle, alright? If you keep pushing, you’ll be looking at surgery.”
I expected that; my shoulder hurts too much to be something small. But the reality of it punches me in the gut. I really fucked up, and I can’t take it back now. And if I don’t know who Darius is without Dare, I don’t know how I’m supposed to figure out where to go next. Tate fidgets, and I realize I’m crushing his fingers. Holding a big, rugged hand that kind of envelops mine is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. It’s this, not the mind-bending orgasm, that I’m going to miss if I go back to only dating girls.
When I realize I’m just gawking at the doctor, I snap out of it and nod, mumbling enough words to show that I understand. On his way out, he tells us where to go in the building to get a new shoulder brace and some pain meds. “Not the good stuff,” I joke, studying the prescription he handed me before leaving. Tate gives me such a stern look it flips my stomach inside out. He’s just as uptight as I always expected him to be based on his social media, but the thing I never realized until this weekend is how hot he looks while he’s doing it.
I’m so fucking tired, so I drop my head back against the bed for one last moment of rest before I drag myself back to reality and a life that’s unraveling faster than I can keep up.
“Hey,” Tate rumbles softly, shifting his grip. “I’m really sorry. But I know you can beat this.” I feel his lips press against my fingers, then his warm cheek resting on the back of my hand. It makes my chest tighten and expand at the same time–like the warmth of having someone to tuck you in at night mixed with the pain of watching them leave and shut the door. I don’t want him to stop, so I keep still and watch him from the corner of my eye.
After a long moment, he catches himself and blushes a little, getting to his feet and pushing the chair briskly against the wall. He picks up my clothes and drops them on the edge of the bed without meeting my eyes. “I’ll wait outside while you change.” And he leaves before I can point out that I need help with my shirt. I don’t get what his problem is, since I’m the one who’s supposed to be freaking out about touching a man. But as I struggle miserably to dress without causing myself more pain, I think back to the boyfriend that he used to feature on his social media, how happy they looked together. How after he left the picture, Tate never posted about anything but swimming again.
After a full five minutes of fighting the extra-large hoodie onto my body, I push the curtain aside and find Tate leaning against the wall, tapping away on his phone. “Are you gossiping with coach, tattling to Alek, or preparing to roast me online?”
I’m joking, but his brows furrow as he looks up. The guy almost looks unhappier than I feel, though that’s going to change when I get back to my silent, dark apartment later today and lock myself in forever. “I was telling the pet sitter I’m headed back early, so they don’t need to feed the cat.”
“You have a cat?”
He pulls up a photo of an ornery-looking black cat with yellow eyes and shows it to me. “I’m a dog person, but I was too busy to take care of one by myself. I found this guy in a cardboard box a couple of blocks from the swimming center. His name is Victor Jr.”
I cough out a laugh. “Does that mean he’s a diva and an asshole?”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” He grins, but it looks strained. When he takes the phone back, his fingers brush mine and I wish there was a way I could hold his hand again on the way to the pharmacy. I deal with it by sticking my hands in my jean pockets. I don’t want to put on the ugly, awkward wrap covered in itchy Velcro, but it stabilizes my shoulder until I can almost use the arm without pain if I’m careful.
I’m not going to have a reason to see Tate again after this, unless I make an excuse about wanting to pet his cat, so I try to stay awake on the drive home. There are all these urges building up in my head, the kind I’ve only felt in one or two relationships–talking about everything, finding out his favorite food and his opinion on my favorite movies, playing my motivation playlist and seeing if we like the same songs.
None of it matters, because I’m so wrecked that I fall asleep before we even get out of the city limits. I always feel nervous falling asleep around the girls I have over, as if I’m going to babble all my secrets, but he already knows most of them. So I drop into the dark and every time I come up for breath in a rush of pain and confusion, he’s there. One time he catches my eyes when I crack them open to check the time. “You okay, little disaster?”
That ridiculous name feels so good, but regret crosses his eyes a second later. He shakes his head and turns back to the road. “Sorry.”
I don’t have many ways of expressing myself besides drawing, and I can’t exactly sketch him a picture, so I shove my hand between the empty coffee cups from the way down, and fist a handful of his t-shirt. The last thing I feel is his fingers cupping mine, his thumb sliding up and down my wrist. I don’t wake up again until we arrive.
Something squeezing my good shoulder drags me into a disorienting world of rain running down the windscreen and a burning pain whenever I move too much. Sitting up and sniffing, rubbing my eyes, I stare at the facade of my apartment building. “Oh.” I fail to bite back a massive yawn and shiver. “We’re here.”
“Yeah.” He fiddles with a worn spot on his steering wheel. “Can you carry everything?”
“Sure.” Awkwardly stuffing the last few things into my backpack, I hang it from my shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”
