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“She didn’t ask you for an autograph?”
I scoff at his teasing, pretending not to notice how he winces after smiling. “She’d better just be focused on helping you heal. You scared the shit out of me, Tripp.”
He nods, his expression somber. “Wasn’t how I wanted you to come home.”
Home. There’s that damn word again. It was strange, sleeping in my childhood bed last night. It’s even tinier than I remember. Even when I was sprawled out at an angle, my feet were hanging off the side of the mattress.
“How’s Germany?”
“About the same as when we last talked. I’m playing pretty well.”
“That’s awesome, man. Who are you playing next?”
I appreciate the way he’s feigning interest. Tripp has never shared my love of soccer. He’s asking because he knows I care about it, not because he does. Just like Sophia.
So, instead of answering, I tell him, “I met someone.”
“What? Really? Where?”
If we weren’t having this conversation in a depressing hospital room, I’d laugh at his excited expression. The way he’s perked up like a little kid getting candy. Tripp came out in college and has gone through a steady line of serious boyfriends ever since. His relationships have always lasted several months at least. Until Sophia, mine never lasted past a night. Me mentioning a woman to him is the equivalent of Tripp telling me he joined a futsal league.
“I met her at the team’s stadium, technically. She’s, uh…I don’t know quite how to describe it. She’s just different.”
That’s the only way I know how to explain the warmth in my chest when she called earlier. When I realized how worried she was. How much she cared.
“Are you actually dating her, or is it just sex?” Tripp asks.
“It’s not just sex.”
“Wow. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks, Tripp.” I stand. Kiss the top of his head again. “Let me go grab Mom. Give her a chance to see you. We can talk more later.”
Tripp nods.
I smile, squeeze his shoulder, then head for the door.
“Will.”
I stop and glance back. “Yeah?”
“I can’t feel my legs.”
I’m frozen, experiencing the same thing. My entire body is numb. “You mean…”
“They’re running tests. But, yeah, probably. They think sensation would have come back by now. You know…if it was going to.”
“Fuck. Tripp…” I grip the back of the chair, needing something to stabilize me.
“I won’t need a swivel chair when I’m treating patients, at least. Good thing I’m not studying to be a surgeon, or they’d have to put the operating table on the floor.”
I swallow, still struggling to comprehend. Trying to fight through the shock and the sadness so I can make jokes about this the way Tripp is. Not being able to walk…to run…I can’t fucking imagine it.
“And you know I hate going to the gym, so I have a good excuse now,” Tripp continues. “But if I can never get hard again and have to pee into a plastic bag for the rest of my life…that’ll really suck. That’s most of what the tests are for.”
Jesus Christ. I didn’t even consider any of that. My frozen brain hadn’t gotten that far.
“I’m so sorr?—”
