She flaps her hand at me as if that's a non-issue. She doesn't answer with anything, which makes me think she doesn't know what to say. But then she grabs her bag from the couch and throws it over her shoulder, suddenly avoiding eye contact.
"I guess… call me later," she mumbles. "Maybe… let me know when you get home okay?" And when she meets my eyes, it feels like she's sayinglet me know when he's home andyou'reokay.
“I will,” I choke out. I stand from my chair, feeling suddenly awkward about how to express the sheer amount of gratitude I’m feeling. Everything in me is screaming to sweep her into my arms, to tell her thank you for staying with me during the absolute worst day of my life. But her posture is telling me that’s not what she wants. She’s pulling back, and I think it’s killing me.
"I will," I force myself to say. "Thank you for staying with me. It… I mean, you were a huge help, so… thank you."
She gives me a stiff nod. Then she's walking toward the door, looking like she's desperate to get out of here. And then she's gone, like she didn't just spend twelve hours with me when I needed her the most.
* * *
Dad gets released from the hospital a day later. I take him back home, listening to him bicker about babysitters the entire way but knowing there isn't a chance in hell I'm leaving him alone anytime soon. I'm still vibrating with the fear I felt when that phone call came through. Thankfully, when he's finally back in his recliner watching the Flyers win their Sunday afternoon game, he becomes a little more amenable. He doesn't even protest much when I make him a dinner with chicken and vegetables.
I stay with him for five days before he finally kicks me out. Five days of skipping class, of leaving for only training and my internship, of fawning over him like a nurse caretaker. It takes three days for him to start complaining that I'm an overbearing mama bear, but it isn't until I stop feeling the panicked ache in my chest that I can bring myself to leave him.
It's been the two of us for as long as I can remember, which means every time I think of what I would've done if he hadn't made it…
I shake my head clear of the toxic thoughts, resisting the urge to rub my chest again. The last thing I need is Dad worrying about how badly this freaked me out, and he's already noticed the motion a few times.
"Alright,call meif anything happens," I tell him in only a slightly-frantic voice. "If you feel dizzy, if you feel weak, if you feelanything—"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll call you. Right as the heart attack starts, I'll call you."
I want to scold him for joking about that, but he's got a teasing lilt in his voice and I think I can see his lip twitching with a smile. And I'm so damn grateful for the sight of it that I can't bring myself to do it. I just sigh and give him a look.
"I'll stop by tomorrow after class to make you lunch and dinner.No more steak. At least for a while. I swear you're incapable of making it without a gallon of butter."
At that, he's rolling his eyes and pushing me toward the door. "Jesus, kid, you're worse than a nursemaid. I can feed myself, you don't need to cook for me. Go do your thing. You've got enough shit going on without organizing your day around your old man."
"Yeah, that's not up for debate," I mumble under my breath, doing a quick check over his shoulder to make sure I left him everything he needs.
He finally deflates with a sigh in front of me. "Aiden," he says softly, and for the first time in who knows how long, his voice sounds serious. Tender. "I'm fine, I promise."
I swallow roughly, forcing myself to look at him. I open my mouth to say something but I'm suddenly choked up, and I have to swallow again to get past the lump. Eventually, all I get out is a croaked, "Fuck, Dad."
"I know," he murmurs. And despite the fact that it's been years since he's done it, he grabs my jacket and pulls me in for a rough hug.
I force the tears back as I squeeze my arms around him. It only lasts for a second, but just that contact is enough to convince my subconscious that he's okay, to calm me down from the constant near-panic I've been in.
When he hears my grateful exhale of breath, he lets me go and steps back.
"Go," he says gruffly. "You've got the gym to get to and your girl to go see. Go."
"She's not—" I start, but then stop, not knowing what I want to follow it up with. Or maybe I just don't want to voice the denial. "I'll call you tomorrow. Bye, Dad."
And then I begrudgingly move back to my little college apartment. It takes me a few days to get caught up on school and work, but it ends up acting as a welcome distraction from everything else. By the time things feel normal again, it's been a week since Dad's been discharged from the hospital.
I'm spread out in the living room working on a report for work when I hear a knock at the front door. I look toward it in confusion.
"Who’s there?" I ask, standing to walk over to the door.
"It's Dani."
Bolts of joy and nervousness hit me simultaneously. Joy because her comfort was monumentally helpful last week, but nervousness because I still have no idea where we stand with each other, and I'm terrified I'm going to make a wrong move.
When I open the door, I come face to face with a Dani I'm becoming familiar with lately and don’t like one bit. Her nerves are evident on her face and immediately my brain starts flying through ideas of how to make them disappear right the fuck off.
It takes me a second to notice the multiple grocery bags hanging off her one arm.