I meant to say something else—his partners. His friends. His lovers?
But Brylee nods in agreement. “We’re his.”
Her smile warms for a few seconds. “I see.”
Not sure she does.
Not sure I am, either. Why I care so much for this guy, after everything.
But I do. And even if I never pray and I’m not a believer… Dear God, if you’re listening, I’d do anything for Ryan to be well again. Hell, I’ll give up smoking. I fucking swear I will.
Just bring him back to us.
“Why the surgery? What was wrong?” In my mind’s eye, I keep seeing Ryan rubbing at his chest. I see the color drain from his face as he makes a dash for the bathroom after sex. I see all the signs I ignored, because why would I think it was anything serious?
Ryan always looked so…strong. So invulnerable.
He looks damn vulnerable now. Defenseless and very young with his golden hair and pale lashes, the papery white skin, the covers pulled up over his chest.
It twists me up inside. Gets all my protective instincts up and rearing to go. He’s ours, and we should have been here for him.
If only he’d told us.
As if reading my mind, Dr. Jensen says, “He has had HCM for some years now. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It’s when the heart muscle becomes abnormally thick and makes it harder for the heart to pump blood. It’s a hereditary heart condition. Ryan got it from his mother’s side. His mother died from it.”
I try to speak, but nothing comes out.
“She didn’t want to face it. She pretended she was okay until it was too late. But Ryan has been taking care of himself, and he came in the past to be checked. It got worse over the past year, and when he came in last week, I knew we had to operate.”
“He didn’t tell us about it,” I admit. “About his heart problems.”
“He didn’t like talking about it.” She nods. “And he was convinced he would die during surgery. Like his mother.”
Jesus.
And everything is falling into place. Why he kept pushing us away, why he didn’t want to start anything in the first place. Why he told me Brylee would take care of me, and told her I’d care for her.
He wanted us to be happy, and he was sure he was about to die.
My heart is fucking shattered, but a spark of hope is still burning.
He cares for us. He never stopped caring.
“We like having people close to the patients come visit,” she says. “It helps the recovery process. Talking to the patient, holding their hand.”
The patient.
It make
s me feel cold. “For Ryan,” I say deliberately, “we’d come every day. If you’ll let us.”
“Add their names to the visitors’ list,” a male voice says from the door.
I turn, and there is a tall, broad-shouldered man with graying hair and dark eyes. The colors are all wrong, and his face isn’t that handsome, but there is something of Ryan in there.
“Mr. Dawson,” the doctor says.
Ryan’s father.