Page 184 of Broken Saint
“We’re okay,” I assure her, although I’m not sure how big of a lie that is. “They’re hoping to get Colt up on his feet today.”
“That’ll make him feel better, I’m sure,” she says, handing me a takeout coffee and a bag full of my favorite treats. But I don’t get the reaction I should. My hand doesn’t immediately reach in for something. Instead, my stomach knots painfully.
I can’t remember the last time I ate something real. Something that I kept down.
I keep telling myself that tomorrow will be better. That Colt will be better, and I’ll be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.
But the reality is that we’re both drowning and unable to hold onto each other to keep us afloat.
“You need to eat something, Ella,” Mom says softly.
Colt’s eyes flicker, letting me know that he’s either coming to, or faking it and listening to everything.
My fear of him finding out the truth about how I’m doing right now is the only thing that forces my hand into the bag. I pull out the first thing I touch. A chocolate brownie.
My mouth should water. I love this brownie and always have. As a little girl, I was addicted to them.
But now, the prospect of eating it seems more like torture than a treat.
It’s the ripping of the packet that finally forces Colt’s eyes open.
My breath catches when his dark orbs turn on me. It’s the same reaction I’ve always had to his attention. It doesn’t matter that his usually bright eyes are dark and exhausted. Our connection is still there.
“Hey, baby,” I say softly as I get to my feet and move closer so I can cup is rough jaw. “How are you feeling?”
He doesn’t answer for the longest time, and it makes my heart race dangerously fast in my chest.
“Do you need me to call someone?” I offer, wondering if he’s in pain or something is wrong.
“N-no, I’m okay,” he finally chokes out.
His voice is still rough from having the tube down it, but every day it sounds a little better, a little more like him.
His eyes drop from mine to the brownie that’s still in my other hand.
“You want some?” I ask, offering it up in the hope he’ll have it instead of me.
He shakes his head. “Your mom is right. You need to eat.”
Ripping his eyes from mine, he finds my mom lingering over my shoulder. Their eyes hold for a beat as something passes between them.
I hate that they’re having a silent conversation about me, sharing concerns over my health when he’s the one lying in a hospital bed.
“Here,” I say, abandoning the brownie and holding out a cup of water with a straw for him.
He hates being looked after. He hasn’t said the words, but I feel the tension radiating off him every time someone does something for him that he should be able to do for himself.
He keeps his eyes downcast, refusing to look at me as I hold the cup.
He might hate it, might despise relying on people, but he needs to learn that I will do whatever it takes, whatever he needs to get through this.
I’m right here by his side, and I’m not going anywhere.
I don’t care what the future holds, if he ever plays football again—a subject that we haven’t broached yet. All I want is him.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” he suddenly asks, pushing the cup away.
“Uh…” I don’t want to lie to him, but I fear that telling the truth isn’t going to help either.