I’ve let myself visualize the slow drain of life from his face while my fingers dig into his throat and cut off his airflow. It’s sick that I’ve let myself feel relief in such dark thoughts, but I have. I go back to the same fantasy every time I feel like throwing up. If it means I’ve become a monster, then so be it. Alex Offerman made me one.
“Bristol thinks you’re getting Band-Aids,” I say in a low voice at his ear. I want to run my fingers through his hair, but I’m too nervous to touch anything near his head.
“I didn’t want her to be afraid. She understands Band-Aids.”
My eyes inspect his body. Every beep on the machine coordinates with something else happening to him—his heart beating, his lungs inflating. Everyone has told us that the signs are good for a full recovery, that his swelling is moving in the right direction. All I can contemplate is what that means for him a year from now. What is Dustin Bridges without his race? Will Bristol and I be enough?
“I was thinking, when you wake up, maybe we could tell her. I want her to know why you’re special. She already loves you so much. You’re her father, Dustin. You’re our rock.” My breath hitches and I press the back of my hand against my mouth, staving off another round of sobs.
“I found the picture for you. I had Tommy get it out of your bag. The hospital let us park the hauler out front. I guess you’re sort of a celebrity. They’re bragging about treating your brain. Way to make the tabloids, Dusty,” I tease. It’s half-hearted, but in the event he can truly hear me, I don’t want him feeling my panic. That can’t be good for his healing.
I stand from the chair and pull the picture Bristol made from my pocket, unfurling it and looking at her sloppily scribbled blobs. What a perfect representation this is. My lip tugs up at my own dark humor.
“I’ll hang it up over here so when you’re ready, you can open your eyes and look at it.” I move around the bed to the corkboard by the sink. I tack the picture to the wall next to a brochure about blood-borne pathogens and a reminder for everyone to wash their hands.
I turn to look at him from the foot of the bed. He’s peaceful, even amidst the wires and tubes and whirl of machines working to take a variety of measurements every single second.
“Doc says they’ll look at easing up your meds in the morning. You might have to go through a bit of physical therapy. Trauma like that slows down a lot of the body’s functions, and I know how much you love being slow.”
I wrap my hands around one of his feet and massage the pad. His special socks inflate around his calves every few minutes for compression.
“I want him to pay, Dustin, but I know I need to let go. We need to let go. I’m going to need you to be strong because I’m going to be such a pushover. If you come out of here and make it your mission to destroy Alex Offerman, I will join your cause. And I’m afraid it will ruin us. We’ll become mired in this hate, and that’s exactly the opposite of everything you’ve been fighting for. So I’m going to need you to be stronger than me. For once,” I laugh out. “Fine, like always. You’re always stronger. The strongest.”
I move back to the chair and settle in. For the next hour I draw gentle lines in his palm and curl his fingers with my force since he’s unable to on his own. I close our hands together and imagine all the places we have yet to stroll like this, joined. I think about that dress Bailey showed me and how maybe, if I’m lucky, she’ll let me borrow it one day. I pray for the opportunity for Dustin to ask me to be his wife, for real, not some lie told in a Dallas hospital.
When the afternoon round of nurses changes shift and a new crew comes in to check Dustin’s vitals, I take the chance to update whomever is left out in the waiting room. Tommy texted me about twenty minutes ago that he and Dad were going to get some food. I’m not hungry. I haven’t eaten in a day, maybe more. I was too nervous before the race.
Dustin’s uncle is the only familiar face in the waiting room, and I’m uneasy about approaching him. He and I don’t know each other well, and his relationship with Dustin formed when my relationship with his nephew was falling apart.
He sits up tall when our eyes meet, though, and I know he’s desperate for news, so I move to the chair next to him.
“How is he?”
I shrug.
“He’d hate every minute of this if he were awake and aware.”
His uncle nods then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s a thin man, maybe an inch or two taller than Dustin. He looks a lot like Trisha, but he’s healthy. Where her eyes always seemed dead, his are full of life. Dustin told me he’s like an actual real-life angel, and I can see how he might glow of goodness.
“His real mom called. At the front desk. They routed her up here and Tom took the call. I got her number, if you want to call her later. She’s worried sick.”
I picture Alysha’s face, her expressive eyes that match the shut ones in the room on the other side of that door. She just got him back. The fear of losing him again must devastate her.
Dustin’s uncle leans to his side and fishes a hospital card from his back pocket, a number scribbled on the back. I take it and promise to call her after I’m done catching him up on Dustin’s progress.
“They’re talking about weaning him from the meds in a few hours maybe, or it might be morning. He’s responding well, which is good.”
“Yes, that is good.” His uncle kneads his hands together and I identify with his need to do something—anything. All of this makes people like us feel so helpless. I take his hands in mine and his twitching stops as a tiny smile lifts the sides of his mouth.
“I’m not great in hospitals. Our mom was in and out a lot. She had . . . troubles.” He grimaces and I understand. Trisha didn’t become an addict on her own. It was in her nature.
“Dustin doesn’t like them either. Same reason, basically,” I say, hoping I’m not giving away secrets that will make Dustin upset. I don’t think I am. He and his uncle have become close, even though they don’t speak often.
“Would Trisha want to know?” The question slips from my lips before I have time to weigh it mentally, and I regret it a little when Dustin’s uncle pulls in his brow.
“She’s around?”
I close my eyes and suck in my lips.
“Dustin didn’t tell you.” Of course he didn’t. Why would he? His plan was to erase Trisha’s visit from his mental database. I was in full support of that plan. Yet here I am, digging her up from the dead.
“She showed up a few days ago. I’m sorry. Dustin probably would have told you, but honestly, I don’t think he wanted to reconnect with her beyond her ambush. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn.” I mentally kick myself.
“She leave a number?”
His question takes me for a loop, and I think back to the note Trisha gave me that day outside Dustin’s door. I was wearing these jeans. My eyes widen and I stand, feel in my back pocket. I pull it out, the paper pressed and the ink faded from having gone through the wash, but damn—what are the odds of this?
“That’s really weird,” I say, handing it to him.
“Is it?” He unfolds it carefully and pulls a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. He studies the number for far longer than it should take to decipher ten digits, and I get the sense that he’s debating internally whether or not he should make a call. Finally, he tucks his glasses back against his chest and stands from his chair, stretching, Trisha’s note held firmly in his hand.