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I look at her mom, whose lips are pressed into a thin line.
“What are you doing here, Tristan?” Sage asks, but her voice is weak.
“I needed to see you. I’ve been worried sick, and with good reason, it seems. Why haven’t you called or written back?” There’s an edge of accusation to my question, and I take a deep breath to tone it down.
“Tristan,” Mrs. Crawford says.
I look at her without releasing Sage.
“She needs her rest.”
I nod. “I’ll just help you take her in.”
“Thank you.” She smiles gratefully, but that doesn’t ease my fears.
Sage is not well, and instead of talking to me, she’s shut me out. A million questions float through my mind, like complicated math problems I can’t figure out. My patience is thinner than air at high altitudes.
We walk up to the house, Sage groaning and breathing deeply. Unable to stand the pain in her voice, I hook my arm behind her knees and carry her into the house. She doesn’t even complain. Instead, she holds my shoulders and rests her head against mine. I breathe her in—sweet jasmine—and close my eyes briefly.
“You’re going to be okay, babe,” I whisper as I walk through the house and to her room. Setting her on the bed, I kiss her forehead.
“Tristan,” she says quietly.
“I’m here.” I brush the back of my fingers along her cheek.
“I can’t do this anymore.” She shakes her head, avoiding my eyes.
My blood ices. I’m pretty sure it’s hardened into icebergs.
“Do what?” Heart pounding, I feel nausea stirring in the pit of my stomach. I’m going to need that vomit bag after all.
“This.” She waves a hand between us. “I think it’s better if we go our separate ways. You’ll get your money.” A weak smile lifts the edges of her lips.
When her hand holds the side of my face, I lean into her and turn to kiss her palm.
“No. I don’t care about the money. I care about you. I’m not letting you go. What’s going on? You need to talk to me.” I push back and stand, pacing in circles.
“I think it’s the best choice. It’s the best decision for me and my health.” She looks away, her voice cracking.
I halt my pacing and look at her.
“Are you saying you’re sick because of me?” I point to myself.
“No, but this whole situation is too much. I think we’re both better off like this. Your focus right now should be on Spread Joy. Mine has to be on my health. It’s already compromised. Please go.” She lies back on the bed and closes her eyes, fatigue clear in her body language.
“I’m not giving up that easily,” I say as I walk out of her room.
I find Mrs. Crawford down the hall.
“What’s going on? Is it another flare-up?”
“Yes.” She frowns. “According to her doctor, she’s had high levels of stress lately, which are not beneficial to her health.” Mrs. Crawford arches a brow.
I look down at my sneakers.
“She told me how you two met.” There’s zero judgment in her voice.
My head snaps up, eyes wide. I feel like a child who got caught throwing rocks at birds.
